Pas de Deux
by la rose carnation
Summary: Companion piece to "The Only True Paradises." The evolution of Santana and Brittany's relationship from Brittany's perspective.
1. Ouverture

(Author's Note: This is intended as a companion piece to "The Only True Paradises," which follows the same sequence of events from Santana's perspective. The chapters will be more or less aligned, chronologically, so you can alternate between the two accounts. Obviously, they're not _exactly_ parallel, as that would be boring.

The style isn't as _soutenu, _even if the third-person shift does give me a little narrative distance, but I see Brittany as a somatic, sense-driven being. Like Santana, she will also get a little more sophisticated as she ages.)

* * *

><p>Santana has always been the most beautiful thing Brittany has ever seen since she saw her filing into their classroom that first day in the middle of fifth grade. She's always the first one you see. Her hair's black-black, not just dark brown like other girls', and her skin's the color of her mother's coffee after she lets Brittany pour in milk and the new brown cloud rises and bursts all over the surface. She's so pretty that Brittany has to remind herself what her mother says, that it's not nice to stare.<p>

Turns out Santana's kind of mean. The other girls whisper. Still, she secretly dreams of being Santana's friend and getting to brush her long dark hair that shines blue.

One day their art teacher sits her right next to Santana. Brittany's never been so close to her before. Santana smells like gardenias and green tea when she takes off her jacket. She catches Brittany staring, so she pretends she wants to borrow Santana's colored pencil. And suddenly Santana is nice and holds her hand and she gets to brush her hair at sleepovers. All of the other girls want to be friends with her now, but Brittany gets to be her best friend and look at her as much as she wants.

* * *

><p>When Brittany gets out of school, her mother drives her straight to the dance studio. Brittany feels dumb all the time at school, but as soon as she gets to the studio and changes into slippers, the smell of wood and warm metal and sweat comes over her like a sweet fever, and she stretches and flies and becomes something other than human.<p>

Because of the dancing, her feet are getting ugly. She doesn't wear sandals anymore. The only person who sees her feet is Santana, who sits next to her parents at all of her recitals.

Sometimes, when Brittany has to watch her baby sister, Santana comes over and brings movies and music to listen to, all kinds of music that Brittany never would have found on her own. While they listen, she teaches San some of her old dance routines and makes up new ones. Santana's a fast learner.

From time to time they sing. Santana has such a pretty voice but anyone can tell she doesn't know it. Her voice sounds like warm dark honey dripping from a rock. It sounds like that when she speaks Spanish to her parents too. Brittany wants to learn Spanish so she can understand. San tries to teach her a little, but it's like a secret code to her.

Even from Brittany, Santana keeps plenty of secrets.

* * *

><p>In seventh grade, Santana stops holding hands with her. She says it's weird and that they're too old for that stuff. A few girls go after boys in middle school. Not Santana. She's too good for that kind of thing. Brittany almost lets that boy Mike Chang take her to a dance in the eighth grade, but she turns him down after all when Santana gives her a hard time about it. She's kind of happy about that, actually. She'd rather keep San to herself.<p>

But like Brittany's cat, Santana belongs to nothing and nobody.

* * *

><p>The summer after eighth grade is hot, sticky, and full of Santana. She's at San's house so much her mother's stopped keeping dinner warm for her. Instead, she eats with San and her parents. They're super nice to her. Mrs. Lopez even keeps her favorite kind of ice cream in the freezer. The whole summer, Brittany doesn't miss anyone from school.<p>

Something's different about Santana lately. It's not just her body, longer and with soft places where there used to be tight muscle. She smells different. Like hothouse flowers and warm silk, and something animal. Sometimes she looks at Brittany like she's never seen her before.

Brittany likes to sleep in Santana's bed with all the pillows, like a nest. San is so warm, and sometimes she touches Brittany all over, which feels good in a strange new way. Ever since she started growing breasts and getting her period, Brittany feels something funny in her belly whenever Santana touches her, like an itch deep in her body. She tries to get the feeling out of her through the place between her legs with water jets and her fingers. It always comes back.

When Santana catches her in the pool, she shows her how to use the water jets. San won't admit she likes it. She says she does it to play along with Brittany. But Brittany knows better. She sees how hard Santana grips the side of the pool and turns away, looking almost angry.

It's not her anger that Brittany fears. Being with San reminds her of when she was little and used to try to pet the birds that landed so prettily on the branches of the oak trees in her backyard—they would only fly away if she got too close, so she had to be content with staring at them, sneaking as quiet and close as she could.

One night they're talking about boys and kissing. Then, Santana says something Brittany never would have expected in a thousand years.

"Do you want to try it?"

She thinks of the birds. Of one in particular: a little brown bird one day that hopped sideways toward her. She stayed perfectly still, so still she held her breath until she was dizzy, so she could watch it twitch and bob and ruffle its feathers.

"Okay," she says.

She tilts her mouth and lets Santana come to her. They close their eyes. Santana's lips press soft and cool against her lips, and that deep fluttery feeling blooms in her belly. She asks Santana if she felt something too.

She did. Relief and joy wash over Brittany. They kiss again, and the feeling spills out of her like too much water in a bowl in the sink. She begins to giggle, and Santana giggles too, and doesn't fly away.

* * *

><p>Brittany wants to try it again. So once Santana falls asleep that night, Brittany kisses her. To her surprise, Santana kisses back.<p>

Deep in the nights that follow, she does it again and again. Santana never starts it but she always lets her—maybe she's asleep and dreaming, but maybe she's awake. They touch so lightly and softly that Brittany feels buried in a cloud. Santana's body, even beneath clothes, feels like it smells: smooth and rich and animal.

She wishes the summer wouldn't end. But it does, of course.

Then everything is different.


	2. Cortina

High school is hard. The teachers don't take care of her like they did in middle school. Brittany feels lost all the time.

Santana likes high school. She's good at it in every way. Brittany is afraid at first that she'll leave her behind, but instead San takes her along, the way Brittany took her to sleepovers in the fifth grade.

San teaches Brittany her locker combination and takes her to each of her classes the whole first week. She writes Brittany's schedule on her hand so she can't forget. By the end of the second week, she's finally learned it by heart, but it tickles in a delicious way when Santana writes on her hand, so she doesn't tell her.

Everything gets better when they make the cheerleading squad. Santana kisses her on the cheek, right in front of everyone, when she sees their names on the posted list; that makes Brittany all kinds of happy.

"You don't have to worry now," San promises. "We's gots it made."

* * *

><p>Being popular means everyone wants to be your friend, but Santana insists that to keep that going means Brittany can't be friends with everyone—which doesn't make sense, but when it comes to this kind of thing, she's learned that Santana is always right. It's like what she saw on Shark Week: Santana can smell a drop of blood in the water, and there must be something shark-like deep inside Brittany too, because she secretly likes to watch Santana savage people. It makes her feel safe. As long as she's with Santana, no one will ever, ever hurt her.<p>

There's another girl named Quinn who's really pretty—almost as pretty as Santana. Brittany aches to be friends with her, but she waits for Santana to tell her it's okay.

It is. Quinn is like them, Santana tells her. Popular.

Sometimes Santana talks about Quinn too long. Something in her voice sounds not quite right. Too bright, too hard—like she can't stop. Brittany always keeps a hand on San somehow when she gets like this, fixing her hair or massaging the sore pits of her palms, as if keeping her close will stop her from what she's most afraid of: that Santana will leave her behind and fly to Quinn.

* * *

><p>The first time they go to a party and get drunk, she clings to Santana like she's the only thing that stands still in the swirling world. She feels as wobbly and queasy as she used to in elementary school when she was learning to do spot turns. When she starts to stroke San's arms and hair and neck, San shakes her off and tells her to go dance with a boy.<p>

"You're making a scene," she hisses.

It stings. But Brittany does as she's told: she dances, flies. When a senior boy catches her, pulling her in by the waist, she loses herself in kissing him. He does something San's never done: he slides his tongue between her lips. That makes her even dizzier.

Then, from the cloud, she sees Santana, kissing Noah Puckerman. She's pushed him against a wall—her hand's still on his chest—and it's clear she's in charge. Santana's never kissed her like that.

Finally, she can't stand it any longer. She lures Santana into a bathroom, pushes her against the wall, and kisses her the way she saw Santana do with Puck. San seems to forget to breathe—then she pushes back against her so Brittany can feel the map of her whole body. As if she wants her. The way a girl wants a boy. Brittany flicks Santana's lower lip with the tip of her tongue, ready to dive, and all at once San pushes her away.

"Enough. Come on. We have to get back to the party," she says, her voice clogged and strange. "People will notice we're gone."

After they stumble out of the bathroom and slip back into the crowd, she watches from the wall as Santana pulls Noah by the hand and disappears upstairs.

"What are they doing?" she asks another Cheerio, a sophomore named Jenna, who looks at her as if she'd just asked what color the sky was.

"I'm guessing they're hooking up." She laughs and shoots a look of disbelief at the football player she's talking to. It's clear she wants Brittany to go away, but instead Brittany strokes her arm the way she strokes San's when she needs to be held and safe. A mistake. Must be the booze.

Jenna opens her mouth to say something, probably along the lines of _get off, _but instead, the football player whoops.

"Make out!" he orders. Jenna gives her a nasty look—_see what you've done?_—but shrugs and touches Brittany's shoulder. They kiss; a small crowd of football players gathers and leers. She tries what she tried with Santana a few minutes ago, licking her lower lip, and Jenna, instead of pulling away, nips at her tongue and sucks, and once again, Brittany lets herself get lost in sensation. Even if she tastes too sharp from the alcohol, Jenna's a good kisser—so it's easy to forget everything else.

After a minute, Jenna pulls away. "All right, break it up, pervs," she says, but anyone can see she's happy for the attention.

The spell broken, Brittany just drifts back into thinking about Santana. She can't hear or see a thing above the staircase that separates them.

* * *

><p>After the party, Brittany walks home, bringing San with her. She takes her hand: for once, softened with alcohol, San doesn't resist.<p>

Brittany pulls an old soft shirt and some pajama pants from her drawer. Her favorites. She hands them to Santana, who goes to the bathroom to change—she's never done that before—and comes back to bury herself under the covers. Brittany joins her. San smells like Brittany's pajamas, booze, and her hothouse smell—but something else too, something bitter and musky. Britt tries to tuck herself into San's body, but San pushes her away.

"I slept with him," she says.

"What?" Brittany's heart thuds, thick and heavy.

"Noah Puckerman. We had sex." She's trying her best to sound happy about it.

Brittany's throat dries and cracks.

"How was it?"

"Okay. Not as good as everyone says." She swallows. Brittany pulls her closer and strokes her hair. This time, Santana relaxes into her. Brittany's sleep shirt feels wet where San's face presses against it. She strokes San's back the way she strokes her little sister's when she cries.

"I'm sorry."

Santana is silent.

"San? You okay?"

"Yeah," she whispers. "Can we just go to sleep now?"

"Sure." Brittany kisses her hair, softly, so Santana can't feel it. Sleep doesn't come easily, but it comes, warm and dreamless.

* * *

><p>Word gets around about the senior boy and the Cheerio that Brittany made out with at Mike Chang's party, and soon boys are swarming around her—hoping for a shot.<p>

Brittany lets boys touch her breasts and her belly and her legs and even between her legs—well, over her underwear. She makes out with another cheerleader at another party, later. It all feels good. That ache she gets sometimes happens when she's with them, but it feels nice, friendly, familiar. Still, she's scared to have sex, ever since Santana was so upset that first time. San will never admit that she was crying, not in a million years, but Brittany knows.

"You should do it," Santana tells her one night on Brittany's floor. "It's really not a big deal." They ran out of junk food, so they're eating jumbo marshmallows straight from the bag; their hands are getting sticky and sugary. Santana tears a marshmallow in half with her fingers. Brittany shakes her head and sucks on a fingertip.

"I think you should do it with Puck. At least—I mean—I've gotten it on with him a bunch of times, so he's getting better at it."

"Puck? Noah Puckerman? Are you serious?"

"Sure. I mean, I'll tell him he gots to be gentle or else I'll break his balls. No one's going to hurt my Britt-Britt and live."

She's got her Mama Tiger face on, and Brittany feels so safe she nods immediately. "Okay. But only if you're there."

"Britt, I can't be there. That's weird." Brittany's face falls, and Santana softens. "But I'll pick you up from his house afterward, if you want."

"Deal."

* * *

><p>Puck is surprisingly nice to her—maybe because he's afraid of what Santana will do to him if he isn't. He moves slowly, softly, and each time he does something new, he asks her if it's okay first. He starts with his fingers, and once he's inside her, he doesn't feel that much different from her own fingers. It feels nice enough after a little while.<p>

As it turns out—she catches on pretty fast. All she needs to do is watch his face and follow his sounds and twitching muscles to figure out what makes him tick. It's like a game. Dance has made her strong: it's easy to keep up. Once she unlocks his weak spots, Puck folds fast.

Afterwards, pulling on her clothes after a quick text to San—_its over with. b—_she asks the one question she's been burning to ask.

"What is Santana like in bed?"

He looks at her funny and smiles his crooked smile.

"Why do you want to know?"

"Well, you sleep with her a lot, right? She's got to be doing something you like."

"Don't worry about it. You were awesome."

"I'm not worried." She shrugs. "Just curious."

"Well." He considers. "She's, like… mean, kinda. But hot mean. She likes to be rough. She makes you fight for it."

"Am I different?"

"Way different. But that's not a bad thing," he assures her. "You're like, psychic or something. You totally knew what I wanted." He grins. "Really your first time, huh?"

* * *

><p>When Santana comes to pick her up—she doesn't even have her learner's permit yet, but she steals her dad's keys sometimes when her parents are still at work—she asks how it went.<p>

"I think it was good," says Brittany.

"You think? You don't know?"

"How would I know? I've never done it before."

"Was he nice?" she asks, glancing briefly from the road to Brittany's face. "He'd better have been nice."

"He was totally nice."

Santana's run out of questions. She stares ahead at the road and worries her lower lip with her teeth.

"It'll only get better from here," she says at last. "I should know."

* * *

><p>She's right, actually. Brittany likes that she's good at sex. It's like dancing: she's strong and supple and can manipulate every muscle without thinking about it, and the way boys look at her body reminds her of the way an audience watches her during her solos at dance recitals. Then, there are the boys: each one smells different, feels different, sounds different. Clothed, their bodies are mysteries; naked, they're revealed: warm, raw, surprising.<p>

Instead of driving something between them, sex has brought Brittany and Santana even closer together. They have something completely new to talk about. Sometimes they even trade boys and compare notes—although Brittany has ticked off more than Santana, who always gets bored and goes back to Puck. Brittany has never gone back to anyone more than twice. Even just for making out, which she'll do with pretty much any boy, they do get boring pretty fast. The mystery's gone.

Still, even though she knows she's supposed to be happy with boys and popularity, Brittany can't stop thinking about touching Santana. She's sure she could make Santana feel good. That Santana could make her feel good. Santana's kisses are softer than boys' kisses, softer even than other girls' kisses. That night when they kissed against the wall—she wants to make Santana move like that again, like she's let her control over her own body slip into Brittany's hands. She wants to hear the sounds San makes during sex, to know how her smell and the taste of her mouth change just after she comes.

Too bad Santana doesn't want what she wants.


	3. The Rite of Spring

Brittany doesn't really want to drink, but San's so excited about raiding her parents' liquor stash that she goes along with it, in return for the promise to break into the fresh carton of ice cream San's mom left for them in the freezer when she and Mr. Lopez left town.

To be honest, Britt doesn't know why San likes to drink. It gives her eyes a dark, sad look. Brittany just gets horny, and those are the last two things you should put together. Tonight, though, with just the two of them, Santana doesn't get sad at all. If anything, they have even more fun than usual—they laugh louder, and their touches last longer. As the alcohol worms into Brittany's belly and turns her whole body into a thudding drum, it drives her crazier and crazier to smell Santana's hair and her shirt and her skin and not be able to jump her. She tries to keep content with her thigh rubbing against San's and San's fingers on her neck.

Until they're in bed, with Santana spooned around her back.

Brittany can't even wait until she's sure Santana is asleep this time. Santana's thigh is flush between her own; a couple more inches and she'd be pushing _right there._ She turns to pull away, but on the way she finds San's mouth, and instead of moving away, Brittany can't help but cover her lips with sticky kisses. This time when she runs her tongue over Santana's lower lip, San doesn't draw back; she only shudders and lets her mouth drift open.

Santana tastes so good, salt and sweat and sleep and sticky ice cream, and her tongue is slick and snakelike. Brittany can't believe it's finally happening. From here, she knows what to do. Santana won't want to stop her; she's sure of it. Her hands move over Santana's skin from her waist up to her chest—her skin is softer and hotter than any boy's—until she slides over San's breasts and feels her nipples stiffen between her fingers. Santana whimpers into her mouth and surrenders, shivering, to Brittany's touch.

What happens next, Brittany can't quite believe. Santana's hands are moving. Under Brittany's shirt and over her chest. Then one hand slides down Brittany's ribs and belly. Under her pajama pants. And then, Santana's fingers sink beneath her panties and into the place between her legs.

She's touching her. Santana is touching her.

No one has ever touched her like this. Santana touches her like she's been waiting to touch her forever. Like she already knows Brittany's body as well as her own.

And doesn't she?

When Brittany eases Santana's legs apart and begins to touch her, Santana's so wet—Brittany can smell it: rich like fresh-dug soil—that suddenly Brittany understands why she never let this happen before. She wanted it too much. And Santana can't let herself want anything. San bites her lip and swallows.

Then they're inside each other—two, then three fingers—and pressed so tight Brittany doesn't know if they can ever come apart again. Brittany wonders when San's going to get mean and make her fight for it, the way she does with boys, but she never does, and it occurs to Brittany that _she's_ the one in charge here. So she sets the pace, listening to Santana's breathing, until she hears it hitch—just the sound of that hitch after all of her waiting and imagining is enough to push her to the edge, and when Santana begins to shake all she can do is whisper Santana's name before she falls, hard, dizzy, only aware enough to feel when Santana tips over just after she does, forcing herself against Brittany as if trying to swallow more of her into her body. She smells so good Brittany wants to burrow into her flesh and seal herself inside that deep sweet animal smell forever and ever.

Brittany knew it would be good, if it ever happened, but she didn't realize it would be like this. It had never felt like this, like someone was drawing out of her that deep dark thing she can draw out of others.

But it's not until Santana pulls out her wet fingers and brings them, curious, to her closed lips, that Brittany thinks suddenly and without knowing why that everything has changed.

* * *

><p>Brittany wakes up to San's eyes. Santana has been watching her sleep.<p>

San flicks her eyes away, embarrassed, and asks how Brittany slept.

"Great. Especially after—you know."

Santana's brow twitches. She doesn't want to talk about this. But Brittany does. She knows everything has changed now. It must have changed.

"San? Are you okay? Did I do something?"

"No." She sounds angry. But she glances at Brittany and her face changes. "I mean, you didn't do anything wrong at all."

"It felt really good for me."

"Yeah, me too." She smiles, and Brittany starts to feel braver.

"Way better than with boys," she adds. "I mean, I think girls are better anyway."

"What girls?" Santana looks puzzled. Brittany wondered if she really hadn't heard about the Cheerios at those parties. She thought everyone knew about that by now.

"Did I not tell you? I made out with Jenna. Oh—and Bethany. Girls are way better kissers." She smiles: a quiet secret smile. "But no girls have ever touched me there, the way you did."

"It doesn't have to be a big deal," she protests. "I mean"—she avoids Brittany's eyes—"it doesn't mean anything."

Liar.

"No one has to know. I just"—Santana doesn't want to hear the truth, so Brittany changes her mind mid-sentence—"really liked the way you touched me."

Then Brittany swallows. Santana looks like she's about to cry. That's the last thing Brittany wants. She plays with the hem of her sleep shirt. San pointedly does not look at Brittany's bared stomach.

"Do you want toast or something?" asks San, rolling out of bed.

"Yeah. And orange juice." Nothing more is going to be said. She might as well let it go. Besides, her stomach is sour—maybe putting something on it will help.

"Done and done." She's out the door before Brittany can even throw off the sheets.

Sure enough—everything has changed.


	4. Tango

Dance is getting harder and harder. Brittany's got a new ballet coach at the studio: a former ballerina at the Met. She wonders what a dancer like that is doing in Lima, Ohio, until one of the juniors tells her she followed a guy. She can't even be forty yet, so she must have just aged out. A few years ago, tops.

No wonder she pushes Brittany so hard. What other dreams does she have left?

Her jazz and modern teachers are cracking down too. Like her ballet teacher, they're pounding _conservatory conservatory conservatory _into her head, over and over and over, and they work her until she aches every morning and it hurts to walk and stretch and even _think. _Not even to mention the Cheerios.

Homework's out the window. Even worse, these days she talks without thinking. That filter everyone has: hers is broken. Everybody thinks she's stupid, and maybe they're right—she's never been good at school—but mostly she's just _tired._

Santana never calls her stupid. She massages her feet and listens when Brittany unloads the frustration of never being good enough, for anyone.

"You're good enough for me," says Santana.

But she isn't. Not really.

* * *

><p>Before the school year is out, they hook up again, twice. The first time, Brittany starts it. They're in bed but still awake. Neither of them even pretends to be sleeping. Santana gives in fast and tugs her shorts off her hips so Brittany can touch her—she's super wet again, and she takes less time than a boy to get off—and then flips Brittany on her back to do the same, only she doesn't take off Brittany's panties: just peels them back enough to wiggle her hand underneath them.<p>

The second time, it's Santana who begins to kiss Brittany in the dark. She strokes back Brittany's hair, almost tenderly, flirting with the border between fierce-cold-sex-Santana and sweet-protective-friend-Santana.

"I like the way you kiss me," whispers Brittany. "Sweet lady kisses. Touch me under my shirt, please."

Santana shushes her and stops her mouth with a deep kiss for good measure. Her tongue dipping into the crevice between Brittany's lip and teeth makes her forget the shushing. She sighs into San's mouth and, instead of waiting for Santana to touch her breasts, traces the line of Santana's jaw to the soft spot behind her ear, that place that makes her smile and hum as they kiss.

"Do you maybe want to try something different?" asks Brittany. "Like maybe I could—"

Santana shushes her again, firmer, and answers by reaching down to touch her like before.

After they're both spent—Brittany made Santana come twice in a row—they collapse, too sweaty and overheated to cuddle.

"Sweet lady kisses," echoes Santana. Is she laughing? "Britt, you're so cute."

* * *

><p>Dance is hard enough this summer without Cheerios camp every day on top of it. Santana and Quinn are super tired with only Cheerios to drain them. Brittany goes from practice to the studio. When her muscles aren't like stone, they're like jelly. She feels like her skin is the only thing keeping her together. She feels so heavy that she never swims in her pool for fear she'll sink straight to the bottom and drown.<p>

Quinn's sure around a lot these days. Brittany's not so sure she likes that. Quinn can make her feel stupid without knowing why she feels so stupid. It doesn't feel mean. Just natural. But Brittany isn't so stupid that she doesn't know Quinn means to make her feel like this. Santana defends her when she can, but Quinn just flashes those eyes and pretends not to know what she's talking about. That face, as sweet and perfect as Brittany's little sister's.

Sometimes she feels around Quinn and Santana the way she feels when Santana is speaking to her parents in Spanish. There's something she's missing in the words, something she can see in the way they circle each other like boxers, the way their eyes flit or fix on each other as if deciding where to land blows. It makes her nervous that she can't tease out the meaning.

* * *

><p>Brittany almost never cries. She just goes stony, cold. When she's alone, she squeezes a doll; when she isn't, Santana.<p>

San's the only one who can see when she gets like this. It's almost worth feeling upset, overwhelmed, frustrated, when Santana holds her and strokes her hair and nestles her into that soft place between her collarbone and her breast. She never complains that Brittany is squeezing her too tight, not even when her breathing is ragged and rough from the pressure. Brittany buries her nose in Santana's flesh and just breathes her: hothouse flowers and foxy musk and earth and gardenia and soap and crushed fruit and sweat and everything good in the world.

One afternoon, after Coach Sylvester yelled at her and made her do laps after Cheerios practice, she's late to ballet and makes so many mistakes that her teacher sends her home early after a sharp scolding. She's just so tired, tired of all of it. She calls Santana, who, hearing her flat low tone of voice, comes straight over.

Brittany lies on her bed and hears San chatting with her mother downstairs as she gathers some plates and silverware. When San trots up the stairs and shuts herself in Brittany's bedroom with a block of cheese, a jar of apricot jam, a loaf of bread and a rare Santana smile, Brittany feels the heaviness melt off her like a coat of wax held against a fire.

San kisses her hair and sits down on the edge of Brittany's bed. Without a word, she picks up a knife and a plate, unwraps the ingredients, and begins to make sandwiches right there on the bed. Brittany watches her fingers dance as she pares off thin slivers of cheese and slathers each slice of bread with an even layer of jam. She licks the jam off the knife before cutting each sandwich into fourths. Scooting closer to Brittany, she holds a triangle to Brittany's lips.

Brittany leans forward and nibbles the corner. Her favorite, since she was little, and Santana knows exactly how to make it. This one's just right: layers of cheese thin enough to soften and melt on her tongue, a thick coat of jam on either side. She takes a bigger bite. Santana still holds the section—Brittany makes no move to take it from her fingers, and San doesn't ask her to. Is San breathing a little funny? She won't quite catch Brittany's eye, and when Brittany licks her sticky fingertips in prying the last bite from between them, San only laughs and pushes the plate toward her.

"It's perfect, San," Brittany tells her. She picks up the next quarter and uses it to point to the second sandwich. "Aren't you going to eat yours too?"

She shakes her head. "They're both for you."

"Will you stay over?"

"My stuff's already downstairs. But don't forget, we gots to get up early for Cheerios tomorrow morning."

"I don't want to go." She tells San about Coach Sylvester yelling at her just after San had left, the laps, the worst ballet lesson ever.

"God. Coach Sylvester is such a fucking harpy." She grips one of Brittany's sticky hands. "Don't listen to her. She just gots a bug up her ass cause she probably hasn't gotten her freak on since, like, 1982."

Brittany giggles.

"Listen. If she ever makes you feel like that again, tell me right away." She skates her fingernails gently over Brittany's inner arm. "Same goes for ballet. She's not _my _teacher, and I ain't afraid to cut a bitch."

"Santana, you're the best ever."

"Don't I know it." San winks.

* * *

><p>During the night, when Brittany is tucked into the soft place and breathing Santana, she nuzzles into her and begins to kiss her over her tank top. San is pretending to be asleep, but her breath gets shallow and uneven. She sighs hard when Brittany's lips brush her covered nipple, which stiffens as Brittany drags the fabric over it with her lower lip.<p>

"You awake?" she whispers into San's skin.

Santana doesn't answer.

"San. I know you're awake."

A pause. "Yeah, I'm awake. What is it?"

"I want sweet lady kisses to make me feel better. Under my shirt, please."

Santana sighs. She sits up. Brittany wonders if that's a no.

"Well?" she demands. "Going to come here and let me take your shirt off, then?"

Brittany's stomach flip-flops with excitement. She sits up quickly, and Santana rolls her shirt slowly up her waist to her ribs, over her head and off her arms.

"On your back," she directs, gently. Brittany obeys. Santana climbs between her legs and fits her hips into Brittany's. She can hardly see Santana's face—only the shadowy outline of her hair. "Now, where do you want them?"

"Um. On my neck. And then under my arms and inside my elbows." Brittany likes it when boys kiss her in those places, but she's never done it with Santana before.

Santana's shadowy head nods, and she bends down to press kisses on Brittany's neck. Brittany whimpers until San places a finger on her lips.

"You have to be quiet now."

Brittany holds her sounds of pleasure in as Santana turns her arms to lay them over her head. She kisses down the line of Brittany's collarbone and burrows her wet mouth under each arm—it tickles, but in a good way, and San takes her time—and then works her tongue into the pits of Brittany's elbows. She brings Brittany's arms back down to her sides and kisses her wrists and palms with such gentleness that Brittany feels like nothing and no one can hurt her.

"Can I touch you?" asks Brittany.

Santana shrugs. "If you want." She swings a knee over one of Brittany's thighs to give Brittany's hand room.

"Will you take off your underwear?" asks Brittany. San nods and peels it back. Brittany smells her again: that smell that seems to make her heart sling its whole weight between her legs. San still has her tank top on, but the hand Brittany slides over her leg meets nothing but warm skin, until she reaches the stickiness smeared over Santana's inner thigh. All this—just from kissing Brittany's neck and arms. Brittany fights back a grin.

Santana's waiting for Brittany to touch her, but at the last second, Brittany grips her waist and flips her onto her back. San sighs without thinking and lets Brittany spread her thighs with her knees. Brittany slides a hand under her tank top to rest at the base of her ribcage, pressing gently, and bends to kiss her mouth. Santana kisses back, but she's impatient now; she peels Brittany's hand from her chest to place it between her legs. It surprises Brittany that San is openly admitting her need. But she knows San will be embarrassed if she so much as smiles into her mouth, so she uses every bit of her command over her body to keep from showing how pleased she is.

When Brittany begins to touch her with slow, gentle strokes, Santana struggles at first, grinding her hips against Brittany's hand in frustration. But Brittany whispers, _shh, _and shakes her head. Santana surrenders, turning her face into the pillow, and Brittany listens as her breath grows deep and quiet. Brittany rolls her body against Santana's like a docked boat in the water. Santana kisses her mouth and her cheeks and her ears and snakes her hands around Brittany's waist. She sighs—Brittany could swear she sounds relieved.

When Santana comes, she cries out before she can stop herself. The cry is sad, somehow. It bunches Brittany's throat and makes her heart speed up in a way that has nothing to do with being turned on. She kisses San's eyelids as San gathers herself again from the darkness.

"It's okay, San," she says. "It's okay."

* * *

><p>That night is the last sleepover they have to themselves that summer. Then Quinn is there full-time, and Brittany watches their game—she still can't follow the rules, and she can't decide if Quinn's with them or against them.<p>

As for Brittany: she's always on Santana's side.


	5. Reel

(Author's Note: Thanks so much for the reviews, etc! I'm surprised by and grateful for the response to this story. The sweet messages are much appreciated.

Believe it or not, Brittany's is a lot harder to write than Santana's, since I have to simplify my vocabulary in this version to a crippling degree. I think I might need to enter a 12-step program for multi-syllabic words.

"The Only True Paradises" is coming back eventually; I'm just waiting for the Glee Gods to grant us a bumper crop of Sapphic material.

Out of curiosity: I've revealed my own belovèd, no doubt - maybe I just read too much Woolf, okay - but which style do you, Dear Readers, prefer?)

* * *

><p>The moment she and Santana walk through the school doors the first day of sophomore year and smell the scrubbed hallway—like wax and lemon and pencil-shavings—Brittany knows this year is going to be different.<p>

Santana teaches Brittany her locker combination again, but Brittany can find her own classes this time. She knows these halls; she rules these halls. She feels like a balloon, bobbing against the ceiling, looking down at all of the biting and scratching and stomping on the floor and knowing no one can reach her.

At least—not as long as Santana holds on to her string. Santana is never, ever going to fall.

* * *

><p>Brittany and Santana are in Celibacy Club now because Quinn's the president. They laugh about it behind Quinn's back. Brittany wonders: how is Quinn going to get good at sex if she doesn't practice? Still, it is fun to hang out with the other Cheerios when Coach Sylvester isn't breathing down their necks and drilling them into the ground.<p>

Santana only really lets herself take off her Head Bitch armor when it's just her and Brittany. Not even Quinn can see her like this. That weird edge in San's voice when she talked about Quinn before is gone; Brittany finds herself liking Quinn more now that she's not a threat.

Until Quinn asks Santana to try out for Glee Club with her.

Brittany convinces Santana to go for it—and to bring her along. One stupid club isn't enough to drag them down from the top of the pyramid. Mostly, she can't stand the idea of San doing it without her.

When they get the chance for extra points with Coach Sylvester, all the better. Brittany's been wanting a good dance solo. She's the best dancer—better even than Quinn and San—and it can't hurt to have Coach's attention.

The funny thing is that in Glee, she gets to dance for fun, without anyone correcting her. The steps are baby-easy, the kind of thing she was doing in Modern and Jazz a year before she even met Santana. The singing part is harder, but nobody minds if she's not the best, especially since that Rachel girl who never puts down her hand in Brittany's English class does enough talking and singing for everyone.

Brittany had avoided everyone in this club before, but it turns out that some of them are really nice. There's an adorable gay boy, Kurt, with enormous sky-colored eyes, who she just wants to take home and cuddle and dress like a doll. And Tina, who wears weird clothes, but who worships Brittany's dancing and learns new steps as fast as Santana. After a few more football players join, it gets even more fun.

Then, of course, there's Mr. Schuester, who is super nice to her—unlike any of the other teachers here, he makes sure she feels cared for. Almost the way Santana does.

It almost makes Brittany wonder about why she's spying for Coach Sylvester, who has never treated her half as nice as anyone from Glee.

But the best thing is that Santana is openly touchy with her in front of everyone. San acts like what happens in Glee doesn't count. They've finally cashed in some bitch-points for freedom, and here no one will knock them down.

* * *

><p>When Quinn gets knocked up, things change—fast.<p>

Brittany's always relied on how Santana sees the world. If she sees something differently from Santana, she figures she must be wrong. But this time, she realizes that she's the one who really understands what's going on. With San so jealous and shaken, Brittany finds herself standing up for Quinn—who she really does feel sorry for now.

Is this what it means to grow up?

* * *

><p>Ever since she got her license, Santana has been driving Brittany to the dance studio after school. Sometimes she stays, working on homework or putting on makeup in the corner, or just sitting against the wall and watching. She almost always watches during ballet to make sure Brittany's coach isn't being too hard on her.<p>

On the days that San watches, Brittany works harder. She commands every muscle; she feels so much more beautiful in motion when Santana's eyes are following her across the room. She rarely says anything to Brittany afterwards, but sometimes she'll squeeze Brittany's hand or ruffle her hair, and that rare gorgeous grin will spread over her face like it's caught fire.

Brittany's also figured out that if she can get Santana to stay overnight after a ballet class, she can almost always score some sweet lady kisses.

* * *

><p>The first time Brittany gets Santana to have sex in the daytime—she even lets Brittany undress her, for once—all Brittany wants to do is look at her and look at her. She never realized how beautiful Santana's skin is: dark and warm against Brittany's sheets. Brittany wants to taste all of her skin. She starts with her breasts—Santana bites back her moans, but can't stop her chest from rising to meet Brittany's mouth when she sucks each nipple.<p>

With a little convincing, San lifts her hips to let Brittany take off her panties. Then Brittany scoots between Santana's legs and studies the place she's touched so many times but never seen. It's dark and wet and smells like the woods after it rains. She dips her nose closer and draws in a deep breath before Santana's voice calls her back.

"Going to stay there all day?" Santana looks afraid—afraid of what? Brittany wants to tell her how beautiful she is, her lean body stretched over the bed, her hair spread over the pillows. She glows like she's been polished, but she smells earthy and musky and fresh and sweet all at once, and Brittany's heart suddenly feels like it's swelling far too big, like there's no more space for her lungs to take in air.

"Sorry, San," she says. Then, she dips her mouth to the warm wet place for the first time.

Santana gives a sharp cry of surprise. Brittany half expects Santana to stop her. It wouldn't be the first time she's stopped her from doing something, since Brittany can't seem to figure out the rules. But instead, she relaxes into the bed and lets her legs drift apart.

In some ways, it's not much different from touching Santana. Brittany already knows what makes her feel good, where to linger and at what speed. But doing it with her tongue feels so much closer, rawer, than with her fingers, and tastes even better than it smells. She keeps a hand on Santana's waist to feel the twitches of her stomach that will tell her when San gets close. San gives herself up completely. She even stops biting back the moan Brittany always sees her hold in when she's getting close to the edge. When she comes, she tastes brighter and sweeter—like something inside her has been let free.

"Oh, Brittany," she whispers as the last waves pass through her. She's twitching with aftershocks before she realizes what she's said, and as Brittany slides back on top of her, she watches San's face darken with embarrassment. San looks at the window. Brittany lays her head on Santana's clammy chest and smiles as San slides her fingers through her hair.

Brittany feels strange. They've had sex before, but it's never made her feel like this—like Santana has grabbed her heart and is squeezing it as hard as she can, like any minute now it will burst like a grape, and she'll die. She just wants to melt into Santana and never, ever be away from her again. She wants to tell San but doesn't even know how to start.

"You came, right?" she says at last.

Santana snorts. "Really, Britt?"

"I knew you came." Her stomach flip-flops. "You said my name."

"Should I have said someone else's?"

Santana still sounds scared; her voice is too hard, and it feels like she's shaking a little beneath her aftershocks. Maybe she's just cold. Still, Brittany has to try to tell her.

"I really like you, Santana. Not like boys. Like…" She struggles, but the words won't come. She's feeling less and less brave. Santana's body stiffens underneath her.

"Like best friends," Santana finishes, firm.

Brittany feels her heart crumple in Santana's fist. She looks up: San offers her a fragile smile and pulls her up for a kiss.

As soon as Santana rolls her on her back, all Brittany wants is to get lost again, to forget what she tried to tell Santana, to forget that beautiful, terrible feeling.

"Touch me," she begs Santana. "I need you." And Santana kisses her again and begins to touch her.

Now she can learn to feel safe again, since Santana's not afraid anymore.


	6. Black Swan

(Author's Note: I wouldn't go so far as to call this dubious consent, but Brittany's side of the post-Sectionals sleepover might be a little triggering for certain readers. TOTP readers can probably guess why.)

* * *

><p>Santana has never been anything but sweet to Brittany when she says the kind of thing that makes other people look at her funny. But after she basically tells everyone over the phone that she and Santana are having sex—she still can't believe she did that—Santana pulls her into an empty classroom by the wrist.<p>

"Britt, what the fuck was that?" she hisses.

"I didn't mean to."

"You realize now everyone in Glee is going to know about—you know." She looks around like someone's about to catch them talking.

"You're always saying how it's not a big deal," argues Brittany.

"Just… just…" San drops Brittany's wrist. "Fuck it, I so can't deal with this right now. We'll talk about this later." She leaves without another word.

Then the big fight happens with Quinn and Finn and Puck, and everything goes down with Sectionals, and no one can stop to think of anything else—not even Brittany and Santana.

* * *

><p>After they win, Santana brings Brittany home with her. They say nothing on the drive from the school parking lot to San's house, and when they get up to her room, San turns on the TV. Nothing on. Brittany watches faces flash by as San clicks through channels on mute.<p>

"Do you want to talk about it now?" Brittany doesn't have to say what.

"Not really."

Silence. They pretend to watch the sitcom flickering soundlessly over the screen.

"I'm really sorry, San," says Brittany at last. "I didn't mean to say it. It just came out."

"Whatever," says Santana. She refuses to look at Brittany. "I'm just trying to figure out what we're going to do about it."

"No one said anything," Brittany points out. "We can pretend it didn't happen, like it's no big deal." Brittany trails off, and Santana bites her lip.

"Well, it _isn't_ a big deal, right? I mean, I sleep with guys. You sleep with guys. You've made out with other girls. This isn't any different from any of that."

"It's not?"

Brittany regrets it as soon as she says it. Santana turns off the TV and looks at her with such a strange, searching stare that Brittany feels her stomach turn.

"We're not _lesbians_," says Santana, as if Brittany had said they were. "We're not gay like Kurt. We're popular, remember?"

"Sure," she says, weakly, "but…"

Before she has time to think of what she wants to say next, Santana kisses her. But not like usual. It almost hurts; Santana seems to be using more teeth than anything else. Brittany pulls away. She doesn't think she likes this Santana.

"Nothing has to change," Santana whispers. It sounds like a threat.

Suddenly she's biting Brittany all over, and now it really does hurt, but Brittany doesn't stop her. She knows she deserves to be punished. So she lets Santana's teeth sink into her skin over and over. And even though it's painful, San's mouth moving over her body is starting to make her really, really wet.

She pins back Brittany's wrists and looks at her so hard that Brittany withers a little.

"Don't be angry, San," she begs.

"I'm not angry." It's a lie. But Brittany knows better than to argue.

Then, suddenly, Santana's hand is under her dress and inside her underwear. She runs her finger down the wet seam and bites Brittany's ears.

"Beg me to fuck you."

The whisper belongs to Santana, but not Brittany's San. It makes her shiver.

"Please. I need you, San."

Not good enough. "_Beg _me to fuck you. In those words."

And suddenly, Brittany realizes: this is the Santana that fucks boys. The one Puck was talking about. _Hot mean. She likes to be rough. She makes you fight for it._

Her heart is pounding. She doesn't know whether she's more turned on or afraid.

"It's just a game, Britt," she says, Brittany's Santana for a moment, and Brittany folds, forcing her heartbeat to the place where Santana's fingers are poised against her.

"Please, Santana. Fuck me."

Santana forces herself into Brittany, stretching open her thighs with a thrust of her hips. It's too fast. But then her fingertips find the quick of Brittany, somewhere deep, and Brittany just closes her eyes and gives herself over.

After a minute, a sore spot builds inside where Santana's fingers hit her again and again. She knows Santana doesn't want to hurt her like that.

"Can I take off my underwear? And yours?"

Santana shakes her head no. Brittany is not allowed to do anything. But Santana does it herself, pulling out just long enough to peel off first Brittany's panties, then her own. Brittany can feel Santana's damp heat like breath against her as Santana thrusts at a new angle that makes Brittany see stars.

Brittany is afraid to open her eyes. She tries to lose herself in how good Santana's fingers are making her feel, at the wet sounds her hand makes against both of them as Santana's hips move against hers. It feels good for Santana too: Brittany can feel from the way her rhythm and breath change and the way she digs her nails into Brittany's wrists.

Brittany feels dirty, used, but satisfied too, since fucking her like this means Santana's admitting that what she and Brittany do together _counts._

Then Santana shifts her fingers, just a little, and Brittany sees nothing but white light. She's saying San's name, and then she comes so hard she forgets nearly everything else. Everything except Santana's body, so shaken, so close to hers.

* * *

><p>Dark has come over the sky before Brittany wakes up with Santana tucked into her side. Her dress is damp where San's face is pressed against it, which she figures must be sweat, until she feels San's chest shake and realizes she's crying. It's not something Brittany is supposed to see. She closes her eyes again and tries to forget.<p> 


	7. Swing

(Author's Note: I think I speak for my gay lady contingent when I say the Glee Gods have smiled upon us this episode. Hoping for further developments. Expect a TOTP update soon.)

* * *

><p>It basically goes against everything Brittany thought about the way things were when Santana goes public with their sweet lady kisses.<p>

Well, to be honest, she's kind of forced into it, in the end.

When a Cheerio asks Santana if she and Brittany are an item, Brittany thinks for a moment that Santana's going to slam that girl against the lockers and have a throwdown right there until Coach Sylvester runs in to break them up. She cringes a little. But then Santana surprises her.

"No. We're not an item. But we did fuck." And even as all sorts of noise rustles over the locker room, San catches eyes with Brittany, just long enough to flash her a grin. She's holding court now and she knows it. After withering that Cheerio, she holds out her pinkie to Britt. It's not a whole hand—but it's something. Brittany links it in hers and feels the contact all up her arm, like a bolt of lightning.

* * *

><p>Later, at Brittany's house, she asks San why she did it.<p>

"They should know we have nothing to hide, right?"

Brittany swallows. It's been a week, and neither of them has brought up what happened after Sectionals. Maybe they never will. It's like Santana has forgotten, like fucking Brittany as if she were some random guy at a party got everything out of her system.

"Hey, lie down with me and let's get our mack on."

Brittany shakes her head. "I don't want to."

"Why?"

"I think I've caught something from my cat. I don't want to get you sick."

"Aw, poor Britt-Britt." Santana looks at her in the old, sweet San way and places the back of her hand on Brittany's forehead. "You don't feel warm. But do you want a cold washcloth?"

Brittany doesn't really feel sick, just uneasy from what happened last week, but San's eyes are locked to hers now and there's absolutely nothing but love all the way to the bottom, and suddenly she does kind of want to be sick so San can take care of her. She nods.

"Okay. Put on some nice warm pajamas and lie down on your back," San directs her. "I'll bring you the washcloth." She kisses Brittany's cheek and heads to the linen closet.

Brittany pulls on her oldest, softest pajamas and lies down to wait for Santana. She hears the tap running in the upstairs bathroom, short bursts of water. Then Santana comes back in and shuts the door gently behind her. When she sits down at the edge of the bed, Brittany sees the washcloth curled in one of her hands like a sleeping kitten. Santana slides her other hand—cool from the tap—gently over Brittany's cheek, her neck, her arm. She arranges each of Brittany's arms up and to the side like a snow angel's wing. Then, she rolls up Brittany's sleep shirt until it bunches just under her breasts, and pushes down her waistband just to the dip between her hipbones.

She looks back at the hand that still holds the washcloth like she's just remembered it. Pinching two corners, she lets it unfurl and swings it back and forth to cool it in the air.

"Ready, Britt?" She smiles, and Brittany closes her eyes.

"Yeah. Ready."

When the damp cloth kisses her skin, Brittany could swear she's twelve again, with Santana begging Brittany's mother to let her stay and nurse Brittany back from a fever. They stayed in Brittany's bed for two whole days and nights and played Go Fish and watched the same three Disney movies over and over until they could quote whole scenes by heart.

Back when everything was easier.

The washcloth is warm and clammy now. It lifts from Brittany's skin as if Santana can read her mind, and she hears it swinging in the air like a soft wing beat.

"Ready again?"

* * *

><p>Coach Sylvester wants them to seduce Finn Hudson, just to break up the Glee Club. Brittany knows that San likes Glee, but she can see her eyes shining a million miles away the way they always do when Santana smells some power within her reach. So Brittany goes along with it, even though she doesn't really see the point, because of how badly San wants to be on top.<p>

It is kind of fun, actually, since it's way too easy to do what the whole thing was for—make Rachel jealous—and maybe people say Brittany's dumb, but she's no Finn Hudson. That boy wouldn't see two girls doing some not-for-public touching under the table of a restaurant booth if it were right in front of him. Which it is.

When Santana has to seduce a younger guy because of Coach's Madonna trip, Brittany thinks it would be funny if she did Finn. So San does.

"God, Britt," she laughs as she drives Brittany home from modern dance. They haven't been able to talk about it outside of school yet, and Brittany's dying to know how bad it was. "I can see why he thought he got Quinn preggo from blowing his load in a hot tub. He's about as long-lasting and appetizing as a bag of wet crackers."

"Wow, really? I kind of feel bad for him now."

"Don't." She grins at Brittany through the rearview mirror. "I'm probably the hottest piece of action he's going to get in his life. Not a bad start to a sexual career."

She pulls up in front of Brittany's house and shifts into park.

"Want to come in? I stole the first season of _Lost _from my cousin's house. Although now I don't know where it is."

"Can't tonight, Britt-Britt. I've got a date. Gots to get my sexy on."

"A date? With who?"

"Don't sound so disappointed. Hot guy from the basketball team. Rob something."

"You don't know his last name?"

"Nah. Who cares? Free meal at Breadstix." She laughs. "Hey. Come here," she says, unbuckling her seatbelt, and leans over to give Brittany a long, sweet, deep kiss.

Brittany swoons, but she's the first to break the kiss. "San, what if my mom sees us?"

"Aw, she won't. And you wouldn't deny me a little something to think about until my date, would you?" San winks, and Brittany feels her heart flutter all over again.

"Have fun tonight," says Brittany, getting out and slinging her backpack over her shoulder. Santana waves with three fingers as she rolls away. Brittany watches her car round the corner and disappear.

* * *

><p>Brittany likes being Kurt's pretend girlfriend for a little while. She knows he's still super gay, even if he's faking straight. But he's as soft as a girl and she just can't stop touching his skin.<p>

Mostly it's fun, for once, to hold someone's whole hand in the hallway.

Anyway, the last time she and San had sex was that time after Sectionals, even though everyone knows now and San even flirts with her in public. Brittany's slept with a couple of guys, which is fun, but none of them knows exactly what she wants in bed, even before she knows it herself, the way Santana does. Too bad Santana's busy clawing apart Puck and Mercedes, even though Brittany knows she doesn't really want him anymore.

She thought it would make San less afraid to be out in the open. Turns out, she's even more afraid now than before.

* * *

><p>After Cheerleading Nationals, everything changes all over again when San jumps right into Brittany's arms, right in front of the camera, in front of the whole country. Brittany wants to kiss her so much right that second, but she knows that would be a terrible idea.<p>

During the bus ride back, San and Brittany hold hands under the blanket that covers their knees. When no one is looking, San plays with the fringe of Brittany's cheerleading skirt and grazes her bare thighs with her fingernails. She shoots Brittany a smug, dare-you grin every time Brittany has to clutch the blanket with her other hand to keep from whimpering.

Finally, after Coach Sylvester makes them carry that huge trophy into the choir room, Santana brings Brittany straight home with her, tosses her on the bed, jumps on top of her and kisses her silly.

They watch movies and eat popcorn kernels one by one from each other's fingers. They kiss and kiss and kiss until they're sticky and salty and drunk with wanting each other, and the whole time, Santana can't stop smiling.


	8. Entracte

Summer before junior year, and time to make some decisions. Brittany drops ballet and takes on more modern and jazz. San's happy about that. She picks her up from class the day she tells her coach, early in the summer.

"Serves her right, the bitch, the way she talked to you like you were nothing." San checks that no one is around, then pulls her around the corner so they're hidden behind a wall, pulls her in by the waist of her leotard, and kisses her. "You're such a beautiful dancer, Britt, you know that?"

"Yeah, I know."

San laughs at that. She takes Britt's pinkie and leads her back to the car.

* * *

><p>"Why do you want a boob job, San?"<p>

Cheerios camp is over. San tells Brittany she has an appointment next week the way she'd tell her she's going to the dentist.

"I just do, okay? Look, I'm sick of justifying this to everyone. It's my body."

Brittany does look. She looks hard at Santana, at how she's thin and pretty and soft, and she doesn't want her to change. But she nods.

"Sure. It is your body. I just… those boobs, I've known them their whole lives, you know? I'll miss them."

San smirks, even if she can't quite laugh.

"Can we at least have some nice together time before they go away?"

Now Santana really does laugh.

"They're not going anywhere," she points out. "There's just going to be more to love."

"All the same." Brittany pats her bed, and Santana moves from the desk chair she's straddling to come sit next to her. She raises her arms to let Brittany slip off her tank top. There's no bra underneath: just her soft, small, pretty breasts.

"See, this is, like, what I mean. If you get a boob job, you'll have to wear a bra all the time."

"Who says?" Santana teases. "Anyway, do you want quality time with the twins or what?" She lets her knees drift apart and points between them.

Britt settles on her knees between Santana's parted legs. She slides her hands over San's thighs, over her soft boxer shorts with the waistband rolled twice, over her waist and shoulder blades and breasts. Santana leans back slightly on her hands and tilts back her chin. Brittany draws a soft line between San's breasts, up to the pit of her throat, then zig-zags to one of her nipples, which she grazes softly with the tip of her thumb, over and over, to watch it harden.

San's mouth drifts open, and Brittany watches her chest swell and sink. She lets the weight of her belly press between San's legs as she leans forward to lick the other nipple. San's not afraid to make sounds now; she hums and twirls a piece of Brittany's hair around her finger.

"Fuck," she says, when Brittany finds a good angle with her tongue, and tugs the lock of hair a little too hard.

When Brittany has sucked both of Santana's nipples to raw, stiff points, San leans back a little more, closes her eyes, and rolls her hips against Brittany's stomach. It's clear how bad she wants it. Brittany's blood isn't exactly rushing to her head either. But Brittany takes a deep breath and stills San's hips with her hands.

"Not now."

San huffs. "Fucking tease."

"First I want you to tell me why you're really doing this."

Santana's eyes fill with tears. She rubs her nose and won't look Brittany in the face.

"It's nothing. I mean, I'm just sick of fighting to be seen." She sighs. "I just want to be _someone _in this stupid know?"

Brittany nods, even though she really doesn't. If Santana isn't someone, who is?

"But honey, you _are_. You've always been someone." She kisses San's knee.

"Britt-Britt, _please._" Santana tilts Brittany's chin toward her and sucks on her lower lip.

"All right," says Brittany, pulling away. "Just hold on, will you?" She slides San's shorts off, pulls her hips to the edge of the bed, and draws a line with her tongue up San's inner thigh.

Her hair is mussed from Santana's fingers by the time they finish. She wipes her mouth on the back of her hand—summer doesn't give you much sleeve to work with. San falls back on the bedspread, glistening with sweat, and Brittany lifts herself from her sore knees to lie down next to her. She kisses the dark downy hairs pasted just below San's ears.

"I'm still getting it done, you know."

Brittany sighs. "I know."

They lie in silence, eyes closed, waiting to cool down.

"Can I be there?" asks Brittany, finally.

Santana rubs Brittany's knee and smiles.

"I don't think they'll let you _be _there," she says, "but you can drop me off and pick me up. God knows my mom doesn't want to do it."

"I want to."

San takes Brittany's hand and presses the palm to her lips.

"I'm glad it's going to be you."

* * *

><p>San's so groggy on the way home that Brittany leaves her in the car while she fills her pain med prescriptions at the pharmacy. It's just like getting medicine for her cat at the vet's office: they do everything for you. She squints at the labels, shakes the right dosages from each bottle into her palm, and hands the pills to Santana, along with the strawberry milk she bought at the drugstore to wash them down.<p>

"Percocet," says Santana, looking at a label. "Freaking sweet."

Britt's brought an overnight bag with stuff for a few days. She sets Santana up in her bed, propping her up with a mountain of pillows like the doctor said, and pulls out the case of DVDs she put together just for this.

"How 'bout we start with some _One Tree Hill?_" she asks. But Santana's already asleep, so she pops in the disc anyway and lies down next to San, listening to her breathing.

* * *

><p>San's been sick before, of course, but she's never been so dreamy and out of it as she is for the next few days, drugged and in pain. She's more like a little girl now than she was when Brittany first met her. Mostly Brittany just watches the time and measures out her pills and strokes her.<p>

"It hurts," she moans, laying her head on a fresh pillow on Brittany's lap.

"I know, honey." Brittany pulls all of San's hair back behind her head and rubs her temples in slow circles.

"I love you, Britt-Britt. I really really love you so much. You do know that, right?"

Brittany aches a little to hear that, since Santana never tells her this sober. Of course she knows—well, she knows in the way San means it now: that she's happy to have someone to take care of her.

"Yeah. I know. Love you too, San."

"Promise you love me more than Quinn, or Puck, or anyone?"

Brittany's not sure whether she's asking whether Brittany loves her more than she loves them, or more than they love Santana. Either way, the answer's the same.

"Yes. I promise."

* * *

><p>The doctor says San shouldn't lift her arms to wash her hair. So Brittany sits Santana on the toilet while she gets the water not-too-hot, not-too-cold, strips San's pajamas and dressings off, and hands her into the shower. She sheds her own clothes and climbs in after her.<p>

San's chest is still raw and red and tender. San rocks a little, watching water run down Brittany's belly and meet up between her legs. Brittany squeezes some body wash into her hands, turns San around, and begins to rub her back until it's creamy with peach-scented bubbles. She works San's hair into a soft mass of shampoo foam and combs out the strands with her fingers as she rinses it. San lets her take her time, as tame as a child.

"Feels good, Britt," she says, a little too loud, and Brittany shushes her gently.

"I don't think you want your mom to know we're taking a shower together," she whispers. And she realizes that even though she's taken plenty of showers here, this is the first one she's taken with Santana.

"Stay with me forever and ever," says San, dreamily, as Brittany washes the last of the conditioner out of her hair.

"As long as you want." She kisses Santana's warm wet cheeks and turns off the tap.

* * *

><p>Brittany guesses she shouldn't be surprised when San jumps back into Puck's bed at the end of the summer. But lately, Santana's been acting like it's no big deal that she and Brittany sleep together. Which is great on one hand, since she doesn't cry anymore or refuse to talk about it, but Brittany kind of misses the way it used to feel when they were a secret. When it felt like something only the two of them had, in the whole world—something deeper than sex. Like something sacred.<p> 


	9. Step ball change

Brittany has no idea if these two things have anything to do with each other, but ever since the beginning of the school year when Santana got bumped to the bottom of the pyramid and Quinn took her place—stole her place, to hear San tell it—San's been on a dirty talk kick. Brittany's not so sure she likes this, since she's not really good at talking dirty.

"It's not that difficult, Britt," San tells her, raking over Brittany's shirt with her fingernails. "Just talk about what you're doing and feeling. Like." Her voice gets darker and softer. "I can feel your nipples getting hard. I want to rip off your shirt and suck on them."

"But San, I can't come up with that stuff on my own. Can't you just tell me what to say and I'll say it?"

Santana sighs. "Here. Just tell me"—she leans to whisper in Brittany's ear—"how wet I'm making you when I do this."

"Really wet."

"How much you want me to touch you."

"A lot."

"What you want me to do to you right this second."

"I want you to go down on me and make me come."

Santana grins. "Good girl."

It feels amazing when Santana gets her off with her fingers or scissoring, but Brittany thinks Santana going down on her might be the best ever. For one thing, there's nothing like the feeling of Santana's tongue—anywhere, but especially there. But it's more than that. It's the way San totally buries her whole self in making Brittany feel good. In the hallways and bathrooms at school, even at home sometimes, San's always fixing her lip gloss, but with her face planted firmly in Brittany's crotch, she doesn't care how she looks. More than almost anything else Santana does, it makes her feel loved and cared for.

She scoots up on the bed a little after Santana prepares her a little nest of pillows and lets San take off her clothes with such gentle skill that she feels like a queen being undressed by her maid. San shimmies down the bed and crosses her ankles in the air, the way Brittany finds so cute. She licks Brittany's knee playfully.

"We're going to play a little game," she tells her. "I can't really talk while I gets my tongue action on, but the more you talk to me—well, the more I'm going to make you happy about it." She winks and spreads Britt's knees with her hands. "Test run. Tell me exactly what you want me to do to you."

"Um." Brittany's having a hard time thinking, since San has lowered her head to breathe on Brittany right where she'd rather have something a lot more solid. She closes her eyes for a minute and concentrates. "I want you to tease me with your lips like you do. And then—"

"Hold up," interrupts San. "Tease you until?"

"Until… I can't stand it anymore. And I—I start begging you to use your tongue." Actually, this _is _getting fun.

"Mhm." San grins big and kisses Brittany's hipbone. Then she begins to do exactly what Brittany asks for. _Exactly. _And Brittany decides she likes this dirty talk thing—a lot.

* * *

><p>Brittany's pretty sure that she and Santana have both stopped sleeping with other people. Lately, she just doesn't want to. She finds herself thinking about Santana all the time. It's like her off switch doesn't work anymore, and she's burning up from the middle with this hunger that won't go away. Santana only has to brush against her and she's hot, so hot she can smell it on herself, like a light bulb that's been left on for days.<p>

It's way more than that, though. She remembers the way she felt that one time, the first time she went down on Santana, the way it made her feel that squeezing too-good pain in her chest. Now she feels it sometimes when she sees Santana coming towards her in the hallway, or when they link pinkies during Glee. And when they have sex, she feels it like something growing in her, with roots in the pit of her belly and vines stretching through her chest and throat and all the way through her, right to her fingertips.

She thinks she might be in love.

She wants to tell San, but she doesn't know how, and the last thing she wants is for Santana to shut her down the way she did last time she tried to say something. She thinks about doing it once, when she gets cramps so bad she skips modern dance, and San comes over with a fresh box of Advil and a bag of M&Ms and presses her warm hands against Brittany's belly until the pain dulls. But when Santana straddles her to massage the pain from her lower back, as she tries to think of what to say, she gets so muddled and nervous that her heart starts beating as fast as her cat's when she tries to bathe her. She doesn't do it after all.

* * *

><p>When Mr. Schue tells them about the duet competition, Brittany thinks back to the ballads, when Santana opened her whole heart to Brittany and sang so that Brittany felt like the honey of San's voice was dripping, warm and sweet, all over her outsides and insides.<p>

They're on Brittany's bed, Santana pressing soft kisses to her neck, smelling like Cheerios practice and that Santana-sweat-smell that makes Brittany's insides go soft, and Brittany decides that this is the time to do it.

"We should do a duet together," she says. Her heartbeat starts to race. "We should do Melissa Etheridge's 'Come To My Window.'" She thinks of the times San has snuck up through her window on school nights to steal kisses in the dark.

But Santana pulls away. Her eyes flash with that same strange look she got right before she fucked Brittany in that hard mean way after Sectionals. But Brittany feels San's heartbeat speed up faster than her own.

"First of all, there's a lot of talking going on, and I wants to get my mack on." Her voice is sharp. The voice she uses with other people, never with Brittany—not when they're alone.

"Well," Brittany starts again, softer. She feels her courage slipping from her again as San's lips dip back to her neck. "I don't know, I just think we should—"

"Second of all, I'm not making out with you because I'm in _love_ with you and want to sing about making lady babies." She sits up so suddenly, moving to the edge of the bed, that Brittany feels her chest grow cold. "I'm only here because Puck's been in the slammer for about twelve hours now, and I'm like a lizard: I need something warm beneath me, or I can't digest my food."

That's a complete crock of shit, and Santana starts gathering her hair back into her tight Cheerios ponytail to avoid looking at Brittany. She must know Brittany doesn't believe her. But Brittany's cold chest feels so empty—like her heart and lungs and the growing thing inside her have been torn out—that she can't even be angry at Santana for lying to her.

"But who are you going to sing a duet with?" she asks.

Santana tugs her ponytail tight and doesn't answer. Brittany watches her, the lines of her neck, the way her arms curve over her head like dark wings.

"I've got to go," says Santana, finally. "I've got shit to do tonight. Homework."

Brittany just traces the pattern of her duvet. She's gone cold, the kind of cold that she would normally fix by squeezing Santana close. But she can't squeeze her this time, even though she's only a few feet away, pacing Brittany's floor to pick up her things and dig her car keys out of her backpack pouch.

"Later, Britt," she says, and doesn't even look back at the bed before she leaves and shuts the door behind her.

Brittany doesn't get off her bed for the rest of the night. She squeezes a pillow and can hardly find the energy to kick off her shoes. Her uniform is still on, stiff with salt and sweat, but the front panel smells like Santana and she can't take it off just yet.

Slowly, her chest fills back up, hot and itchy, and she realizes how angry she is. Santana lied to her just to make her feel bad and then left her heartsick.

She's tired of Santana putting fear ahead of love.

Artie isn't really Brittany's first choice as a duet partner, but all of the other guys were taken. And he does have a good voice. Besides, it's so easy to pick him up, right there in the hallway, that she remembers what it's like when someone feels lucky to have her.

Meanwhile, Santana sings her duet with Mercedes, a love song, and she doesn't look at Brittany at all. The whole time. She doesn't look at anybody. It makes Brittany's stomach fold in on itself over and over to hear Santana singing like that to no one.

* * *

><p>When Brittany is practicing with Artie in her room and tells her he's not over Tina yet, she realizes she's seeing her own pain in someone else's eyes. It's too much for her. She sees that he wants to escape as much as she does. So she carries him into her bed—the same bed where Santana broke her heart, so short a time ago that she hasn't even changed the sheets—and straddles him the same way she's done to Santana a million times. He smells like Axe body spray and that dark bitter smell underneath that only boys have. Nothing like San.<p>

Artie doesn't know what he's doing. She even has to put the condom on for him. Besides, he can't exactly move, so she has to do all of the work. Brittany's never slept with a virgin before, so she figures that's why he looks at her with that kind of wonder, like she's the most beautiful and mysterious thing he's ever seen.

Still, she can't help thinking, before she can stop herself, that this is how someone should look when they're in love.

She's not used to someone looking her in the eyes during sex, and she feels almost strange looking back into his. It doesn't feel natural. Like it's too close. When he comes, he grabs her waist so hard it feels like it's going to leave finger-shaped bruises. And then he looks at her with the softest eyes she's ever seen and tells her she's beautiful. He strokes back her hair from her sweaty neck and bites his lip like he wants to say a million more things. And then his eyes turn to glass, like he's about to cry, and Brittany rolls over onto her back and stares at the ceiling. The whole room seems way too quiet. They're both so empty their breath seems to echo, like dead shells sloshing at the bottom of a wave. And then she feels dragged along the bottom and filled with wet heavy sand.

"How do you feel?" she asks Artie. Silence again.

"I don't know," he answers, finally. "You?"

"I don't know."

* * *

><p>Artie dumps Brittany before the duets competition, which she guesses she deserves. The way he talks about sex, like it's some kind of miracle, makes her feel cheap for just doing what feels good to her with those other boys. She thinks about that a lot over the next few weeks.<p>

Which end up going pretty fast. Because even when she tries, she can't stay mad at San, who knows her better than anyone in the world. San swallows her next few weekends, taking her to all kinds of places: the zoo—which is an hour's drive away—bowling, even a bike ride with a picnic that San has packed with all of Brittany's favorite foods. If she didn't know better she'd swear they were dates. They start having sweet lady kisses again too, but Santana is extra careful not to look her in the eyes, and she's stopped talking, just like the old days. It's like she's trying to draw that line between friend-San and sex-Santana so hard that she's cutting through the page.

So Brittany takes her at her word, for once—that sex is not dating—and starts dating Artie.

It's weird: she's never been in a real relationship before—closest she ever got before was San, and god knows San made it clear that _that _wasn't a relationship—and it's totally like it's supposed to be in the movies. He takes her to dinner and movies and buys her coffee, and brought her a rose once at school, just because. Sure, the sex isn't like with San, and it sure doesn't feel as good. But she figures out after a while how to get herself off, and he's at least getting a little better with the kind of stuff you can do with your upper body. Best of all: he looks at her and talks to her. Not like the dirty talk Santana likes—well, sometimes—but mostly sweet things, like "You look so beautiful in the light like this," or "You make me feel so good."

It's like when Brittany was eight and got a marshmallow stuck in her ear. She couldn't hear right for weeks, and when they pulled it out, she realized how deaf she'd been. She never realized before what it could be like to have someone who wasn't afraid to show his feelings about her, right in front of everyone, without thinking twice.

* * *

><p>Ever since Brittany and Artie are official news, it's like Santana has been trying to tear apart the whole male half of New Directions with her teeth. But it shows her how jealous San is, which kind of makes Brittany feel wanted—not the same way Artie makes her feel wanted, but she can't fall out of love with Santana either, no matter how hard she tries. Even though things would probably be a lot easier if they were just friends.<p>

The truth is that they haven't been "just friends" since they were fourteen years old and Santana kissed her for the first time.

Maybe that's why it's so easy, when Santana catches Sam in her web, for her to convince Brittany to start sleeping with her again.

"Plumbing's different," she insists. "That means it doesn't count. Haven't we always agreed we're just best friends? That nothing else had to change?"

If Brittany had a jellybean for every time San has said something like that, she'd be as sick as her little sister on last Halloween.

* * *

><p>It takes sleeping with her again for Brittany to realize how much she'd missed San's body.<p>

The second San's mouth meets hers for the first time since she started dating Artie, it's just like coming home. She's wet and her heart is pounding as hard as it did that very first time Santana touched her. San can do all sorts of things Artie can't. Brittany especially loves scissoring now, since San is always on top, doing most of the work, which is a nice change. But even better than that is the fact that Santana knows Brittany's body as well as Brittany does. She knows Brittany's buttons, all the ways to get her off quick as a rabbit, and all the ways to work her slowly to the edge so she comes so hard she forgets her own name.

Sometimes she has a hard time making herself remember that it's not cheating.

* * *

><p>Brittany learns never to mention Artie to Santana. Every time she does, San's face stops dead. When Santana invites her over the same day she has a date with Artie, she just tells her she has plans already. San learns not to ask more questions.<p>

She wonders if Artie suspects anything. Santana said it wasn't a problem, that guys think the idea of two girls together is hot, but somehow Brittany knows it's not a good idea to tell Artie about what she does with San. She has a feeling he wouldn't be too happy to share.

It's like she's living two lives: one with Artie, and the other with San. When they're all in the same room, she feels like a rag doll and they're playing tug-of-war.

Most of the time, she sticks to Artie's side. He treats her like a little girl sometimes, in a way San has never treated her, but at least he always shows how proud he is to have her.


	10. Soubresaut

(Author's Note: This is somewhat off-topic, but it's something you academically-inclined Brittana shippers might enjoy.

I had an epiphany today while reading some criticism on Proust's depiction of the lesbian underworld: that a code name for lesbians was _tante, _which translated into British slang as "auntie." So when Santana refers to herself, in 2x18, as "Auntie Tana," she's tapping into a late Victorian tradition of subversive closeted lesbianism. Cool, huh?

More on-topic... I have a very difficult time understanding the appeal of Artie on about nine levels, and not just because of my disinclination to find men attractive. This is my best shot.)

* * *

><p>Quitting Cheerios has given Brittany a lot more free time. These days, she's less tired, and she doesn't feel as dumb and dull as she used to. She's even started to miss ballet.<p>

"You miss that Black Swan creature from the deep?" Santana asks, sitting on her bed, when Brittany tells her about it.

"No. I mean, I just miss the way everything is so, I don't know, put together. Even though all those French words are kind of confusing sometimes, there's just something so beautiful about the way you move, you know?"

"Maybe you could teach," suggests Santana.

"I don't know if I'd be good at that," Brittany admits.

"You used to teach me," Santana reminds her.

"That was a long time ago."

"And now you know a lot more." She stands up and walks to Brittany, barefoot, pressing her belly into Brittany's back and lining their arms and legs up together. She laces her fingers through Brittany's and presses their collective hands together. "Teach me something right now." Then her lips meet the back of Brittany's neck and Brittany has a very hard time thinking of something to teach her.

"Well," she says, "how about arabesques?"

San lets Brittany go, twists up most of her hair into a messy bun that she ties with the band on her wrist, and shakes her limbs loose so Brittany can pose them. It's easier than telling San how to do it. And besides, Brittany gets to slide her hands over San's arms and ribs and thighs as she molds her into the first position. She tilts San's body forward at the waist as she lifts her leg by the thigh. She slides her hand along San's knee and calf and foot to give the leg a straight line. Then she stretches out San's arms: one to her side, the other ahead.

"A little straighter here." She smoothes the line of Santana's arm. "It's also about the way you face. So look over there." She points to San's window. "You should look like your eyes are going that way forever." She tilts San's chin. Santana does what she's told. Her look seems to cut straight through the glass of her window and look way beyond the houses on the next block. "Good. Really good. That's first arabesque."

She rotates Santana and bends her arms and legs, guiding her so San never shakes as Brittany's positioning pulls her muscles tight beneath her skin. She takes her through second, third, fourth arabesques. When she can tell San is about to lose her balance, she puts out her arm as a barre.

Finally, after Santana is stable in fourth arabesque, Brittany steps into her body and places one hand under San's solar plexus and the other under her lifted thigh.

"This one is going to be a little harder," she says. "Tell me if you need me to stop."

"Wanky," smirks Santana, but Brittany shushes her.

"Just let your body follow me. And keep that foot on the ground as steady as you can. Lean on my left hand. I'll catch you if you start to fall."

San's heart is beating hard against the stretched place where Brittany's left hand holds her up. And slowly, slowly, like a glass half-full of something she doesn't want to spill, Brittany tilts San's body forward and lifts her thigh so her legs open wider.

"Keep your leg straight," she orders. "Straighter. Good. So, this is an arabesque penchée, which means your leg is up really high." She feels a slight quiver in San's leg. "You okay?"

"Sure," says San. "I used to do splits in Cheerios, remember?"

"Yeah, but it's been, like, more than a month, and if you're not stretching all the time you can just tighten back to the way you were."

"I'm okay. Promise." She fixes her eyes on the opposite corner like Brittany told her to.

As Brittany keeps tilting her, she slides her hand down to the tendon of San's inner thigh to monitor the stretch—just in case. San lets out a soft little gasp and opens her mouth, and her heartbeat is so hard it's all Brittany can feel against the hand on San's bended chest. Santana's muscles hold strong, but she's starting to tremble, and Brittany can suddenly smell through San's underwear how wet she's getting as Brittany's hand moves so close.

"I think you like arabesques penchées," Brittany whispers into her falling hair. And she tilts San closer to upright, just enough so her leg stops quivering, before sliding her hand from her thigh to the soaked-through lace between her legs.

* * *

><p>All that night, they can't stop touching each other. They have sex twice before falling asleep naked and wrapped in each other. In the middle of the night, Brittany wakes up to San's hot breath at her ear and her hand cupping her breast.<p>

"You feel so good, Brittany," she whispers. "Better than anything else in the world."

It's the closest sex-Santana has ever been to best-friend-San, and Brittany doesn't move, for fear she'll stop talking. She wonders how long San had been whispering to her before she woke up.

"I never want to stop touching you."

Her voice is so soft and cloudy that Brittany wonders whether Santana is really awake. She pretends she's still asleep, since she knows Santana probably wouldn't be saying these things if she knew Brittany wasn't sleeping. Keeping her breath deep and slow, even though her body is warming up as Santana's hands move over it, she feels a little like she did that first time, when both of them were drunk and right on the edge between sleeping and waking. Only now she feels that growing thing in her again. It's hard not to breathe too much when its vines are crowding out all of the space in her lungs and pushing her heart right up against her ribs. She can smell Santana—naked Santana, with no clothes or Cheerios or boy smell on her, just those strange flowers and the darkness of her sweat. It makes Brittany want to take a deep deep breath through her nose and pull that smell in and drown in it.

Instead, she keeps quiet as San reads her whole body in the dark with her hands, almost like she's never felt it before. And San pulls Brittany's thigh over her hip so she can squeeze in close and press their breasts and bellies together. San's body is so much smoother than Artie's—softer too, especially since they quit the Cheerios. Artie's skin never burns like this, so glowing-hot.

When San's fingers dip inside her, Brittany lets herself breathe out. She didn't realize she'd stopped breathing.

* * *

><p>Brittany wakes up buried in Santana's sheets and sees a thread of sunlight sneaking between the curtains. San's lips are pressed to her hair and she can hear her breathe. She's still asleep.<p>

If Brittany moves, even a little, she'll wake San. So instead, she just starts thinking.

She thinks about Artie: how gentle he is, the way she never has to tiptoe around him the way she does with San, like she's teasing a tiger with a feather. The little ways he touches her like he's showing the world how proud he is to have her. Like he can't believe his own luck. The rumble of the linoleum in the school hallways under her body as Artie gives her a ride to class in his chair. The way he texts her after dates to tell her he misses her already. The fact that when he does something that hurts her, he tells her he's sorry. And he never hurts her on purpose.

Then, she thinks about Santana. The way San knows everything about her, from her favorite flavor in every kind of candy to the names of every pet she's ever had. How every time she touches Brittany, anywhere, it feels exactly right, like every part of each of them fits together with every part of the other. The smell of her that stays in Brittany's sheets for days—that smell she loves so much that she steals one of San's shirts out of her laundry hamper from time to time and cuddles with it for a few days until the Santana fades out of it.

Sometimes, she doesn't like how much sharper and quicker she feels these days. The easier it gets to think, the more she wishes she didn't have to think at all.

It's just when she's thinking about this that Santana shifts and groans. She wraps her arms around Brittany and gives her a squeeze. Brittany smiles.

"Awake, San?"

"I guess so." She sighs and burrows into Brittany's neck.

Brittany wonders if what San said last night is just going to disappear into that shut room of things they never talk about. Now that San's awake and her voice is groggy and grumpy, she starts to doubt whether she really heard San say those things in the first place. Maybe she was just dreaming.

She twists out of San's arms and sits on the edge of the bed. She's sick of thinking, but she just can't seem to stop.

"Where are you going?" San groans, reaching for Brittany's back.

"Nowhere." She slides her hand into San's and looks hard at that thin little line of light leaking in through the window. There's something she has to know, but she doesn't even know what question to ask.

* * *

><p>They're dressed again and Santana's fixing her hair by the time Brittany makes a decision.<p>

"I want to talk to you about something." Her heart thumps, but Santana doesn't say anything back. "I really like it when we make out—and stuff." She can't even bring herself to call what they do sweet lady kissesor sex or anything, not while she's still got Artie floating in her head with his too-sweet smile.

"Which isn't cheating because…?"

"Plumbing's different." Brittany goes a little cold at being made to repeat Santana's line, which she's feeling more and more sure is totally not true.

"Mhm." San glides over to her dresser and makes a show of looking for something in the pile of makeup she keeps on top. She won't look at Brittany except through the mirror.

"But when Artie and I are together"—she can almost feel Santana stiffen as she says his name, but she keeps talking anyway—"we talk about stuff like feelings."

Santana's eyes jump around the room. "Why?" She screws opens a stick of lip gloss. Brittany can almost feel the sweetness of Santana's first waking seconds shriveling up as she slides the wand over her lips.

"Because with feelings it's better."

She's touched a nerve or something, because Santana's voice comes out tight and too loud.

"Are you kidding? It's better when it doesn't involve feelings." She spins around and looks at Brittany. "I think it's better when it doesn't involve eye contact."

She doesn't have much time now, but Brittany knows she has to push through this, or she's going to chicken out again and not say anything for months, just like last time. And now she has Artie to make her braver. She's got less to lose.

"I don't know, I guess I just… don't know how I feel about _us._" She finishes the sentence and waits for Santana to say something mean, or make a joke. But to her surprise, Santana just starts picking up pillows.

"Look. Let's be clear here." Her voice is soft, almost thoughtful. "I'm not interested in any labels. Unless it's on something I shoplift." There's the joke. But nothing mean—yet.

"I don't know, Santana. I think we should talk to somebody. Like, an adult. This relationship is really confusing for me."

"Breakfast is confusing for you." And there's the mean. But it's the kind Brittany can make go away by saying something she knows Santana will find cute.

"Well, sometimes it's sweet and sometimes it's salty. Like, what if I have eggs for dinner, then… what is it?" Brittany waits for the smile, but instead, Santana looks back at her pillows. She's got nothing else to fix.

Brittany keeps waiting.

* * *

><p>Santana finally agrees to talk to the substitute sex ed teacher. It's dark in the room, but Brittany keeps feeling Santana sneaking glances at her the second she looks away. Since they agreed to talk, she hasn't looked her in the eyes even once, which she used to do all the time, except during sex. Now it's like she's afraid of Brittany. Not mad—afraid.<p>

"It's not about who you are attracted to, ultimately," says Miss Holiday. "It's about who you fall in love with." Brittany feels about nine feelings at once and can't begin to untangle them.

"Well, I don't know how I feel," she says, "because Santana refuses to talk about it."

So when Miss Holiday suggests that they sing a song together, Brittany's super surprised when Santana's the one to jump on it.

"I have the perfect song," she says, and looks into Brittany's eyes for the first time in two days. Brittany feels her whole chest fill up like a hot air balloon.

There's an email from San waiting for Brittany when she gets home: no subject, just a sound file of the Dixie Chicks and a quick note, no signature:

_for glee. take the alto harmony on the refrain_

It's a good thing Brittany kind of knows this song from that Fleetwood Mac album her dad used to play when she was little, because she's not good with lyrics, but she does remember the chorus. She listens to the sound file a few times, gets her own part in her throat, and wonders what's going to happen from here.

* * *

><p>When Brittany has trouble figuring out what song lyrics or poetry mean, she usually asks Santana, who doesn't mind sitting down and explaining them line by line. But a lot of the time, she can't explain it exactly, or she tells Brittany two or three different ways to read a line. Sometimes, she says, words can mean a lot of things at the same time.<p>

Brittany used to have a lot of trouble understanding that: that the same thing can also be so many different things at once. But now that something is _her, _and suddenly it makes sense how there can be a hundred answers to a question and not one that's exactly right.

She watches Santana sing to her, sees her ready to break down and cry in front of the whole Glee Club. With Santana's eyes never moving from hers, reaching into her deep enough to twist her heart back and forth, she forgets every other Brittany, including the one who's with Artie. She's seen Santana cry at school before, but never because of her.

"Is that really how you feel?" she asks.

"Mhm. Yeah." San's voice is as soft as it was when she said those things to Brittany in the middle of the night. Only now they're both awake.

When Santana holds her, Brittany is almost ready to kiss her right in front of everyone in New Directions. Even Artie. But then Rachel congratulates them on something called "Sapphic charm." Brittany doesn't know what that means, but those words make Santana go so cold Brittany can feel it from where their arms press together.

"Look, just because I sang a song with Brittany"—all the old harshness floods back into her voice—"doesn't mean you can put a label on me. Is that clear?" She glances back at Brittany one more time as she walks away, but her eyes aren't clear and deep with love like they were when she was singing: instead, she looks ashamed. Seeing her shame gives Brittany that same torn-chest feeling she felt when she asked Santana to sing a duet and San snapped back that she wasn't in love with her.

It's like they haven't gotten anywhere at all.

* * *

><p>At Artie's house, they're playing Mario Kart on his little sister's Wii when he asks Brittany about the song.<p>

"What's going on with you guys?"

"Nothing. It was like, a friends song." Her little Princess Peach car veers off a cliff when she jerks the controller too hard.

Artie pauses the game and looks at her. "Brittany."

She usually doesn't mind telling Artie about the way he feels. He never laughs at her when she can't figure out the right way to say what's on her mind, and he likes the way she thinks about different things from other people. But Santana's different. Except for that one time on the party line last year, Brittany has never told anyone about what goes on with Santana.

Besides, what does he want to hear? That she's in love with Santana? That when she took his virginity, she was heartsick and thinking of Santana the whole time?

"We had a fight," she lies. "Santana just wanted to make it up to me. That's all."

Artie raises his eyebrows. He doesn't believe her. But he doesn't ask any more questions. She's right: he doesn't want to know. Not really. He turns back to the game and unpauses.

"Girl, you know there's no way you're going to win now that your ass has gotta be helicoptered out of the abyss," he teases.

Brittany tries to smile as she watches that little guy float down on a cloud to stop her from falling deeper into the blackness. She wishes he existed in real life, and that he'd come and save her now.


	11. Coppelia

(Author's Note: Wanted to get this up to give y'all US-dwellers a way to pass the time before you lucky dogs get to see Rumours. Damn my expatriate existence...

So here's Brittany's side of the Hurt Locker scene. Not easy to write-but I did my best to understand what I consider to be the most terrible decision of all time.)

* * *

><p>"Hi," breathes a voice at Brittany's ear as she switches out books from her locker. She turns to see Santana looking at her the way she used to sometimes that summer they were fourteen: like she'd never seen her before. Even all this time later, with everything that's happened, those eyes still make Brittany forget how to breathe.<p>

"Can we talk?" Santana asks. Her voice is soft—bed-soft, Landslide-soft.

"But we never do that," says Brittany. Something is different—something is about to happen. She puts away her book, trying to push a bubble of fear back down her throat.

"Yeah, I know but—I jut wanted to thank you for performing that song with me in Glee Club." Her eyes keep jumping from one of Brittany's to the other, so she's looking into her eyes without staying still. The shifting makes Brittany even more nervous. "Because it's made me do a lot of thinking. And what I've realized… is why I'm such a bitch all the time." She pauses. "I'm a bitch because I'm angry. I'm angry because I have all of these feelings"—she lets her eyes follow a football player past their lockers—"feelings for _you"_—she keeps avoiding Brittany's eyes for a moment, like it hurts too much to look—"that I'm afraid of dealing with, because I'm afraid of dealing with the consequences." Her voice gets tight, pushing back tears, and she stops again.

This must be the strangest moment of Brittany's life. Santana is talking about feelings. Santana is talking about feelings for _her. _Right in the middle of the hallway of William McKinley High School. Brittany doesn't trust herself to say anything. She waits.

"And Brittany, I can't go to an Indigo Girls concert. I just… can't."

"I understand that," says Brittany. At last, something easy to answer.

Santana looks at her feet, then back to Brittany, and Brittany realizes she's steeling herself to say something even harder.

"Do you… understand what I'm trying to say here?"

She's desperate to be rescued. Brittany wants to rescue her. But she can't. She knows what Santana is saying—but not what she's _trying _to say. She needs more time, time she doesn't have when San is looking more ready to break every second. She shakes her head slowly.

"No, not really."

Santana's eyes move away, doing a dance familiar to Brittany from every time their sweet lady kisses got a little too close to making love. But then—Santana looks back into her eyes and says something that sweats the color and the smell out of everything except for the two of them.

"I want to be with you."

For one full second, everything is perfect.

"But"—and with that _but_, things begin to cloud up again, and Brittany glances around as the hallway reappears—"I'm afraid of the talks, and the looks. I mean, you know what happened to Kurt at this school."

Brittany had never really imagined this moment before. She's not the type to close her eyes and work up colorful fantasies of what she'd like to happen, what might happen, what could happen. So when Santana talks about her reputation, Brittany realizes: it was too good to imagine, even for a moment, that everything could change so easily.

"But honey," she says, comforting Santana the way she would if San were upset because of Quinn or Coach Sylvester instead of her, "if anyone were to ever make fun of you, you would either kick their ass or slash them with your vicious, vicious words."

Santana begins to cry, and Brittany feels again like a song that means several things at once—proud and relieved and heartbroken—to see San finally let herself go.

"Yeah, I know, but… I'm still afraid of what everyone will say behind my back."

Brittany looks to the hallway again and tries to imagine herself walking down these halls with Santana, holding hands. Stopping at corners to kiss. The way she does with Artie—Artie, who she's just remembered again.

"Still, I have to accept… that I love you."

She loves her. She loves her. She loves her. After all of that time trying to think of how to say it herself, before San shot her down, Brittany can't believe that Santana said it first.

"I love you. And I don't want to be with Sam, or Finn, or any of those other guys. I just want you." She searches Brittany's face. "Please say you love me back. _Please."_

"Of course I love you. I do." She wants to draw her in, hold her close, kiss her tears away, right in the hallway for everyone to see.

Everyone.

And then—she remembers him again. Artie, her boyfriend. Artie, with his hand tugging Brittany's rag doll arm. She swallows. She knows what she has to do. She looks at Santana, who has pushed her away so many times, and she does the right thing.

"And I would totally be with you if it weren't for Artie."

Santana looks like she's been punched right in the solar plexus.

"Artie?"

"I love him too." Or, at least, he has been good to her. Faithful. Proud, the way Santana wasn't and still isn't. "I don't want to hurt him. That's not right. I can't break up with him."

"Yes you can," snaps Santana. Anger floods into her face. "He's just a stupid _boy_." And Brittany can hear a hundred conversations in their beds echoing in her memory, laughing about boys and sex and pretending what the two of them did in bed meant just as little.

"But it wouldn't be right." San is shaking her head, and Brittany feels suddenly so sick and empty she wonders whether she's doing the right thing after all. "Santana, you have to know, if Artie and I were to ever break up, and I'm lucky enough that you're still single"—she tries to take Santana's hand, but Santana shakes her off—"I'm _so _yours. Proudly so."

"Wow." The door is shut again. She's back to the Santana who told her that they weren't lesbians. "Who ever thought that being fluid meant you could be so stuck?"

The moment San seals herself off, Brittany begins to understand what she's just done. Still, it's too late to go back now. The best she can do is apologize and hold her. But Santana throws her off like she's on fire.

"Get off me," she cries, and walks away so fast, turning the first corner, that Brittany feels like her eyes are following San's shadow, her fading print in the air. She's stuck in place, hollowed out like a pumpkin gutted with a spoon, and wishing for once—after feeling too quick for weeks—that she could think just that much faster.

* * *

><p>Brittany has a date with Artie tonight. She has to pull herself together. But this afternoon is burning in the base of her belly like she ate something rotten. She can't stop seeing Santana's face, her tears, the way she shook off Brittany's hand the way she would a snake.<p>

When she gets home, she lies down and lets herself go stony, clutching a pillow. She tries not to think, but she can't do anything but think, not when she's still like this. So she practices her dance routines with the background music cranked up so loud her mom yells at her to turn it down. She dances until her whole head and body feel like they're made of over-boiled spaghetti.

She showers, scrubbing herself pink, and can hardly feel herself walking downstairs, taking the car, driving to and parking at the movie theater. She thinks of Artie, how he can't feel his legs, and wonders what it's like to move through the world all the time like this, like something besides your own body is pushing against the ground to move you forward.

Artie's waiting for her in front of the marquee. The light makes him look flat and small. He's changed his vest and shirt for her. A funny feeling comes over her as she looks at him, sore almost, and she can't decide whether it's love or anger—even though he hasn't done anything wrong.

He spots her and waves. She walks to him and bends to kiss him.

"Hi baby," he says.

"Hi."

"I have a movie present for you," he says, trying to sound mysterious. He reaches into his backpack and, with a crinkling noise, pulls out a box just enough to let her see the label.

"Dots!" Brittany grins and claps her hands.

"That's right. Anything for my woman." He grins back, and for the moment, love wins the battle. She kisses his cheek. "So, what do you want to see?"

She looks up at the marquee. Too many romantic comedies. Horror. She just can't do either of those right now.

"Gnomeo and Juliet," she decides.

Artie grins. He'll go along with it without teasing her for picking a kid's movie. Still, she knows what he's thinking. The same thing he was thinking when she let him think she still believed in Santa Claus.

They buy their tickets, Artie buys them matching White Cherry Icees—extra large—and they find places in the wheelchair row. The movie is loud and bright and silly. Brittany drops her Dots one by one into the Icee the way she used to drop things in the snow as a kid, and carefully fishes them out with the flimsy spoon-straw to chew them once they're frozen and filmy with gelatin. She keeps her hand on Artie's and pretends she doesn't feel torn in two.


	12. En pointe

(Author's Note: TOTP update will happen as soon as I recover from last night's episode. Whew...)

* * *

><p>Usually Santana answers Brittany's texts right away. Brittany knows for a fact that she has a special ringtone each for Brittany's texts and calls. When she gets texts while she's with Brittany, she'll check her phone and click it off just as fast—"Oh, whatever, it's just SamQuinn/Mom/Puck"—and go back to whatever they're doing. But Brittany can text her whenever—even in the middle of the night to ask her whether a cat can eat catfish, seeing as they're related—and half a minute later she'll hear her phone chime with a reply.

She gets home from her date with Artie around midnight. When he asked after the movie if she wanted to hang out at his house for a while, she told him she was too tired, which is true even if it isn't the whole truth. This is the time when she and Santana usually text each other good night. No text from San yet. She sends off her own message.

_night san xoxo_

Fifteen minutes later, after she puts her pajamas on and brushes her teeth, she checks her phone, in case she missed San's reply. Nothing. She tries not to feel sick again, tries not to think about this afternoon. She stares at the phone like staring will make a text appear.

Finally, she sends another text.

_san im sorry_

She's tired and aching to the center of every bone, but she can't sleep. After an hour, she stops checking her phone. She stumbles downstairs to fetch cheese and jelly and bread and utensils from the kitchen, and then comes back to her room and shuts the door. She puts on The Lion King, sits down on her bed, and begins to make herself sandwiches in the dark.

* * *

><p>Every time she sees Santana now, Brittany feels like a fishhook just pierced her chest and tugged her heart against her ribs. But San won't even look at her. She's Brittany's little brown bird again: every time she gets just a little too close, she spots her and vanishes.<p>

Brittany counts the unanswered texts in her outbox. Eleven in less than three days.

Even though it's only been a few days, it feels like forever before she finally gets to talk to Santana. She approaches from behind, softly, when San's about to open her locker and can't find a way to escape.

San hardly looks at her when Brittany tells her she misses her. She only rounds on her, her voice cracking—not in anger, but in pain—and after Sue interrupts them and both of them get mouthfuls of dirt, Brittany knows it's over. San's sealed off again. She's lost her shot.

What rings in her ears: Santana is still dating Sam. She's still afraid. And her fear breaks Brittany's heart more than anything.

* * *

><p>The next weekend, Artie takes her to that place where you stuff your own bears. He lets her pick out two matching ones. They're floppy and have long soft fur the color of coffee and milk. Their eyes are big and black.<p>

"These ones," she says, and hands Artie the shell of his bear. He turns it over and rubs its fur with his thumb. Then he smiles at her so sweetly that it makes her chest squeeze a little.

"It's perfect," he says. "You'll have to cuddle with it for the rest of the weekend so it smells like you. Think you can do that?"

"Totally." She grins.

Before she ties their seams, the woman who stuffs the bears full of fluff hands you two little fabric hearts and tells you to kiss them and make a secret wish before putting them in the bears, Brittany closes her eyes and wishes for the thing she wants most. She kisses it and tucks it deep inside the cloud of stuffing. Artie draws his finger from the bear's seam and hands it back to the woman, who tugs the web of loose threads to close the back.

"What did you wish for?" asks Artie as they clean off loose fur with brushes under a fan.

"Artie, it's a secret wish," she reminds him patiently.

Then, he takes her clean bear from her hands and gives her his in return.

"What are you doing?" Brittany's heart thumps.

"I made a wish for you. I want you to have this one now."

Brittany tries her best to match his smile, the kindness in his eyes. But all she can think of is the wish she made when she kissed the heart of the bear that's now curled in Artie's lap.

She wished for Santana back.


	13. Firebird

(Author's Note: Thanks again to my chère beta, terriblemuriel, her beautiful brains and eyes and impeccably sage counsel. Kudos also to JJ over at themostrandomfandom, for her inspiring brilliance and generous insights.)

* * *

><p>During the two weeks that she and Santana barely speak a word to each other, Brittany can never get used to it. It's weird to see her around the halls and not know what she had for dinner last night, which teachers and classmates are driving her crazy at the moment, what she's planning to do this weekend. She didn't realize how much she knew about Santana until now. Or how many times a day she texts San or dog-ears a thought to tell her later when they're alone. It's like a piece of her is missing. She never remembers being this lonely.<p>

Sure, there's Artie. But he's nothing like Santana. For one thing, he doesn't know about things like cheese and jam sandwiches or Dr. Peanuts, Brittany's ratty old stuffed elephant from when she was a baby, hidden in a shoebox in her closet in a spot only she and Santana know so her mom won't throw him away. For another, she can talk to Artie about all sorts of things without him understanding what she means at all. He smiles and laughs like she's the sweetest thing ever, which does make her feel good, but she knows he's humoring her. It's like she's speaking another language and he's praising her pretty accent.

That's why she's so surprised when Artie asks her to join the Brainiacs so they can qualify for a quiz show.

"I mean, you don't have to answer any questions," he says, quickly, after she wrinkles her brow. "We just need a warm body in the fourth seat."

She feels her heart plummet. "What, you don't think I can answer anything?"

"Oh, no, of course you can." Artie retreats. He gives her a soft, sorry smile and pulls a fresh box of Dots from his backpack. "I got these for you. You know, to woo you." He pauses, holding them out to her; she doesn't take them. "Not like that. I mean, I just wanted to do something little for you, to show you it would mean a lot to me. To do this together."

Brittany sighs and takes the candy. "You could have just told me it would mean a lot to you."

"I know. That's why I love you, baby."

"When's the show?"

"Tomorrow night. We're having a hardcore study session tonight, but you don't have to come if you don't want. Like I said, we just need"—he seems to realize he's about to hurt her feelings again and walks it back—"well, I mean, I just don't want to put pressure on you this late in the game."

"Where and what time? I'll be there."

* * *

><p>Mike and Tina are actually really glad to see her. Brittany had kind of expected them to groan at Artie for bringing her, since she's sure they think she's stupid, but they already know Artie asked her and thank her as soon as she and Artie join them in the empty classroom. They pull out their study books and notes. Artie opens his and slides it over so she can look on. It's full of highlights and smudges and margin notes. She likes this: to see into Artie's mind. She's never been invited in before.<p>

In the math part, she's a total goner. History and English, though, she's okay. Lately they've been doing poetry in her English class, and while all of the other students are hating it, she finds she kind of likes it. You have to bend your mind around it, to curl yourself around the words and let them warm to your temperature. It's like you can smell poetry. Like it's a living thing. Brittany does best with things that don't come straight at you. As for history, she has Santana as a tutor, and Santana likes history so much that Brittany's started to like it too. It's like a giant soap opera, Santana says, and it's kind of true. The names and dates never quite stick right, but it's like there are a hundred little threads she can follow, threads with people and feelings and thoughts, and she tries to string and clamp facts along them like little beads.

She hardly says anything as Artie and Mike and Tina quiz each other. But she listens and soaks it in. The quiz bowl, Artie explains, isn't the same kind of thing as the decathlon will be, if they get there. It's out loud and it goes fast, and the questions can be weird. He tells her, again, that she doesn't have to talk if she doesn't want to. Tina and Mike nod. She kind of wants to slap them.

It's funny, but since she's lost Santana, her protection, she's started to let herself get angry. There's no one to stick up for her when people laugh or call her stupid, no one who can whip up a rage to save her from having to do it herself. Brittany's body was always strong, but now, without her crutch, she's starting to realize how strong her mind is. And it turns out her mind is kind of angry. Like little scraps of it have been stacking up for years, in some hidden room that only Santana could get to, and when she left, she hid directions and a key under the doormat.

After the review session, she can't resist sending a quick text to Santana, even though she hasn't replied to a single one in two weeks.

_im gonna be on tv w brainiacs tmrw wish me luck_

Two minutes later, San's chime rings from her nightstand.

_good luck britt i know youll do great_

Brittany feels so thrilled and brave all of a sudden her throat is tight. Too lightheaded for sleep, she rolls, restless, for hours, like her body is floating off the bed and she can't anchor it down.

* * *

><p>The next day, San doesn't dart away when she spots Brittany coming toward the lockers. Instead, she closes her eyes, shuts the locker door, takes a deep breath, and twists her hands together. Brittany approaches, quiet, stepping lightly, as if she's approaching a skittish animal.<p>

"Hi, Britt," says San, and shines on her the first smile Brittany has seen since that one time at the lockers. She leans on her back foot and keeps her hands crossed and twined in front of her, but the smile feels like it's filling Brittany with liquid light. Brittany smiles back—carefully. "I just—I wanted to say break a leg. Tonight." She looks at her feet, then back to Brittany's eyes, shifting her gaze from one eye to the other the way she did when she told Brittany she loved her. "I'll be watching."

Brittany's heart thuds so hard she can't hear. It's like the moment, that time she sprained her ankle and couldn't dance, when the doctor told her it was finally okay to go back to the studio. That spring-loaded relief from knowing that everything is the way it should be.

Then Santana flinches, and the reason why happens so fast that Brittany hardly sees it until San's face and neck and white sweater are a patchwork of red ice, clinging to her eyelashes and dripping into her shocked, open mouth. Karofksy. He's jeering back at her. Brittany thinks about running after him to punch him right in that potato face—her anger really is starting to get the best of her. But instead she just takes Santana's arm.

"Come with me," she says, and leads her to the girls' bathroom. She keeps her eyes shut so the sugar won't leak in, and lets Brittany test the tap, lean her head over the sink, and wash the sticky red mess from her face.

"Ugh," says San, spitting out a mouthful of water. "This is so gross. I'm going to fucking kill that gorilla. Maybe have Sam do it."

Brittany doesn't say anything. Her heart dips a little at the mention of Sam's name.

Once she's handed San a wad of paper towels—she guesses San would rather dry off her own face—Brittany leads her into a stall and sits her down on a toilet lid. She starts to unbutton Santana's sweater, but San grabs her wrist.

"What are you doing?"

"It's gonna stain. I just want to wash it out."

"I'll do it." San drops Brittany's hand and finishes the unbuttoning quickly. She's got a spaghetti strap camisole underneath, black, and Brittany can't help staring for a moment as Santana's shoulders stretch back, shaking off the sweater. Santana sees her looking and her eyes shift to the floor as she slips the second sleeve from her wrist.

"Thanks for helping, Britt, but can you just go now?" Her voice isn't angry: just small and sad. Brittany nods. She backs out of the stall and goes back to the splashed-over sink to soap the last of the sticky syrup off her hands. She glances at the mirror and spots San watching her, sweater limp and dead in her hands, waiting. Brittany's eyes dive back to the tap, to the coursing hissing water. She finishes quickly and dabs her hands with a paper towel. Just when she's about to push the door open, Santana's voice from the stall stops her.

"Britt. Just—text me the channel and the time, okay?"

Hand pausing against the door, Brittany smiles.

"Okay."

* * *

><p>In the studio, when Brittany sees those cameras and lights pointing straight at her, she feels a lot less strong and angry. She shrinks and feels glad that the others told her she didn't have to answer anything. But then she looks at Artie and Tina and Mike, swallowing and wide-eyed, and realizes they're just as nervous as she is. She lines up a row of Dots, since chewing keeps her from getting too nervous, and then they're off with a crack. She pictures Santana watching her from her bed, lying on her belly with her chin on her folded hands, ankles crossed in the air.<p>

Brittany doesn't know much about academic decathlon, but she does know pretty fast that their butts are getting kicked. That Sunshine girl keeps looking at her rows of Dots, which she keeps replacing so she doesn't have to watch the score getting cranked up on the other side. She feels the excitement the way she would if she was just watching instead of sitting in the hotseat. Then she glances over at her teammates, who are starting to look green and clammy, and pops another Dot between her molars. Her jaw is getting sore.

Then she sees it: a new category just flashed up. Cat diseases. She thinks about last week, when Lord Tubbington started limping and she picked up that veterinary manual at the library and ended up going through the entire section on cat diseases. And suddenly, she knows just what to do.

When she hits the buzzer, she feels Artie's panic. She can almost hear him stop it in his throat. But she doesn't care.

As she racks up points, inching closer to Carmel, feels her fist getting sore from pounding the button as the answers pour out of her and pump her full of something like _smart, _she thinks again about Santana watching. San's probably sitting up, squeezing her legs to her chest and burrowing her chin between her knees.

When they win, she jumps up and down and squeezes her teammates. Artie pulls her down for a kiss and chirps into her ear, "I'm so proud of you."

And something in his eyes, the way his black pupils look deep and clear like glass, makes her believe him. For a moment she almost—almost—forgets about Santana as she kisses him back.


	14. Échappé

(Author's Note: Thanks to terriblemuriel for invaluable development help, and congratulations on her recent nuptials with JJ, whose symbiotic influence and brilliant Brittanalyses have forever changed this story.)

* * *

><p>For years, basically since she figured out how to do it at thirteen, Brittany's thought of touching herself as something to do when her body is aching too badly to ignore it. Like being hungry when all you have is a granola bar in a scraped, linty wrapper at the bottom of your backpack. It does the trick but it's no plate of spaghetti and meatballs.<p>

But these days, she's stopped calling Artie when she feels horny. She's realized how much _fun_ it is to do it for herself. No one else to please, no getting frustrated when Artie isn't pushing her buttons. And best of all, since she's started to spend a lot more time in her head, she's just now starting to realize how much is inside of it.

She remembers taking a road trip to Michigan to visit an aunt at around age nine. She and her parents had been driving for about an hour so far, and her mom was showing her with a finger where they were on a US map. She'd asked, where's the line between the green state and the purple state? and squinted through the window glass at the horizon, so far away that all signs of living things shrank into nothing, just a thin line between land and sky that kept becoming more land. Her parents just laughed. The world, her mom said, is a big big place. Even if they all kept driving like this for the rest of their lives, in loops and strings and rows like a skittering cockroach, they could never see it all.

It was too strange to understand back then, but now Brittany can see her own mind like that: open and endless. She can follow long strings of thoughts and there's always more and more to follow, branching into others like roads, until she's dizzy and feels that same vacuum in her belly that happens when she leans over the balcony of a tall building so she can't see the wall.

At first, she just misses touching Santana so much that she imagines the way they used to be. She'll pick a memory like she's pulling a card out of a deck. Today she chooses a Saturday morning in early spring when Santana left Brittany in bed, sleeping, to take a shower, and crawled back into bed with her, still wet and clammy. Brittany closes her eyes, tracing lines over her inner thigh, and works the color back into the memory. San's grapefruit and gardenia scented shampoo. Her damp body pressing Brittany's clothes to her back like a freshly-licked stamp as she spooned her. The tug of San's teeth on her earlobe and her quick fingers loosening the drawstring of Brittany's pants. The way San's wet hair stung the insides of her thighs like jellyfish tentacles until it warmed against her skin.

Then, once the memory's so full she can almost touch it, she begins to warp the corners. The room slows and gets brighter. She smells a trace of dark honey in the shampoo. And when San spoons her, her teeth release Brittany's earlobe. She kisses the nape of Brittany's neck and whispers:

"I want to be with you."

* * *

><p>On the way to Detroit in the school van, Brittany plays with Artie's hand: tracing the lines of his palm like a fortune teller, bending and unfolding his fingers, turning it over and over in her own hands. He closes his eyes. His face is smooth, peaceful; he suddenly looks so <em>young, <em>and she gentles her fingertips so they barely graze his skin. She's almost afraid it's going to powder and spoil like a moth wing.

She watches land stretch from before to behind them and wonders what Santana is doing right now back in Lima.

After they'd won Smarty Pants in Ohio, when she fetched her backpack from the green room, she'd kind of hoped to see a text from Santana. But there was nothing. Her heart sagged a little.

She shouldn't have been worried. The next day, San stopped her outside the choir room. Her eyes followed the other Glee kids who passed through the doors and stood two steps farther back from Brittany than she used to. Her shirt that day was loose and black. She hasn't worn white since Karofsky slushied her.

"I watched," she said.

"I know."

San's eyes flicked from the door to her feet back to the door before settling on Brittany's shoulder, light and hesitant as a butterfly.

"I was so proud of you," she said. Brittany wanted to take the three steps that would close the space between them and squeeze her so tight their ribs would lock together. But she only let herself grin—almost as big as she wanted to. And like a room in a dark house when someone turns on a light in the room next door, San's mouth tipped into a soft, helpless smile.

Brittany's fingertips have stopped in the pit of Artie's palm. His eyes flutter open beneath his glasses.

"Everything okay, baby?"

"Yeah." She offers a quick smile to prove it. In the seat in front of them, Tina nuzzles deeper into Mike's shoulder. Brittany's pulled her own hand back, woven her fingers together, and tucked her hands in her lap.

"Nervous?"

"A little." It's the truth. She knows she just got lucky with the cat diseases. The categories here could be anything. Science. Computers.

"Brittany, you won that thing for us back in Lima. Without you, we wouldn't all be heading to Detroit right now." He takes her wrist, pulls her fingers apart, and closes her hand between his. "You're going to be great."

She nods without smiling.

"Want to study?" he asks, and reaches in the backpack at his feet for his heavy study book. She takes it from him, opens it on her thighs, and lets Artie rest his chin on her shoulder while they go through the pages together.

* * *

><p>The quiz bowl goes off without a hitch. They're on fire, all four of them. They've all been packing themselves with the candy and soda and pretzels put out for them in the green room and they're hopped up on nerves and sugar. Brittany looked up the channel and time before she left, and she knows the Glee kids and her family and especially San are all watching. She blows a kiss: San will know who it's for.<p>

This'll show everyone who's called her stupid. Even—she remembers this with a special sting—even Mr. Schuester.

When she gets the tiebreaker question, her heart is mouse-quick. Not because she's nervous, but because she knows how excited San is going to be. And how proud.

After they jump and hug and whoop and squeal, the four of them run to get their stuff out of the green room. They head to the motel, where they've got two rooms with two double beds each: one room for Artie and Mike, the other for her and Tina. Of course, what that really means is they're going to wait for Ms. Hannon, their club advisor, to go to bed, and swap so the couples can be together. Tina and Mike are looking at each other like they've got big plans.

It's not even ten when Ms. Hannon turns in. She must be tired from driving that big school van all the way from Lima. It takes about ten seconds after that for Mike to dive into their room with his duffel bag over his shoulder. Britt drags her things out the door, closing it behind her just after she hears the triple sigh of Tina, Mike, and the bedsprings. God, Brittany hopes the walls are thick.

* * *

><p>In her new room, Artie's waiting for her, looking giddy. He wraps his arms around her neck and she lays him down on the bed. But before he can kiss her, she hears her phone ringing from her purse.<p>

It's Santana.

"Sorry, I have to take this," she says, and he raises his eyebrows but doesn't argue.

"Hi," she answers. She pockets her card key, walks out of the room and shuts the door behind her.

"Britt." San's voice feels like that first moment in the shower when the hot water soaks into her hair and soaks it to the tips.

"Did you watch?" Brittany looks up and down the narrow gray hallway before sitting down, back to the wall, a few paces from her door.

"Of course I did. You were amazing."

"Thanks."

She waits for San to say something else. Silence. She keeps waiting.

"You won it," says San, finally. "Everything."

"Something like that."

More silence comes after that, and Brittany closes her eyes as if she can look over the state line and through that flat space until her eyes reach San's body. She'd bet money San's sitting just at the foot of her bed, nested in dark pillows, the way she does when she's unsure about something and needs space to think.

"I was thinking about you," she tells Santana.

"Yeah?"

"Mhm. I was hoping you were watching me when I got those questions about World War Two because you helped me study for that test last week."

She can hear Santana breathing. Thinking breathing.

"I was—I mean, I am—so proud of you."

Brittany lets the words wash over her for a minute. The dirty hall of the motel is gone behind her closed eyelids. She can only see that image of Santana on the floor, guarding herself with pillows from some danger Brittany can never quite imagine.

"I miss you," she says, finally. She can't even hear San's breath now.

"Miss you too." A beat. Then, stronger: "Britt, I have to go."

"I know. Me too." She looks back at the door. Artie's still behind it, waiting. "Night, San,"

"Night, Britt."

* * *

><p>After she hangs up with Santana, Brittany walks to the ice machines and back, just trying to work the lump from her throat. She has to look happy for Artie. Happy and nothing else. She jumps from one foot to the other in the little alcove, trying to shake the Santana out of her skin. It's the first time since the lockers that San has told her she misses her.<p>

By the time she comes back, Artie looks like he's memorized every inch of the ceiling.

"What took you so long?" His voice is clipped, fast.

"Sorry. You know I've missed her, Artie." She doesn't need to say who.

He takes a deep sigh, squeezes his eyes shut, and then opens them again. He tilts his mouth into a tight smile.

"I know you have," he says, milder, and pats the place next to him on the bed. She settles down beside him and buries her nose and mouth into his chest. He smells like forest and mulch and powder and—well—boy.

"Kiss me," he says. Brittany swings her knee over his hips and straddles him. He braces her waist with her hands and sighs as if he's been holding the sigh in for a hundred years, and she feels how hard he is already. She thinks about how long she's made him wait. Her stomach softens and turns with something like love. Something—but not quite.

She undresses him and herself, grinds against him and lets his hands wander her body. She puts on the condom for him, even though he knows how to do it himself now. Sinking onto him feels weird after all of those times lately that she's touched herself while thinking of Santana. Somehow she feels further away from him now that she and Santana aren't sleeping together anymore.

_Miss you too. _San's voice on the phone—so soft, at the edge of cracking. The way she sounds just after Brittany's made her come.

The thought of that voice saying other things gives Brittany a shiver so deep she forgets where she is. Instead, she imagines the scene rewound, re-imagines a night where she straddled Santana's hips instead, sank her body onto San's fingers, and rocked so they crooked into that pit only San can find. The one that makes her feel like San's fingers are stretching and sprouting in every part of her. Santana letting her set the pace, the way Artie lets her tonight. San's hands in place of Artie's, bracing her thighs. She's in San's dark bedroom and they're buried in her swishy sheets and the only bright thing is Santana's skin.

"Brittany." Artie's voice, husky and close, cuts through her fantasy. "Open your eyes."

She realizes with a shock that she's closed them. She never closes her eyes. Not with Artie.

Her eyes return to his and settle. Her own moment is gone. Her hips belong to Artie for the moment, moving and he guides them with his hands until he's finished. It doesn't take long.

"You didn't…?" He cocks his head. She shrugs, gives him a little what-can-you-do smile, and rolls over to lie next to him. She kisses his warm shoulder and ribs. "Oh." He sounds disappointed. "Do you want me to… you know?"

"No. It's okay," she tells him. Nuzzling into his shoulder, she closes her eyes again and lets the thought of Santana grow inside her chest again. Her chest suddenly feels full of something dark and liquid. She loses the smell of Artie because it feels like she's stopped breathing. Like somehow, the need to breathe is gone.

"I love you," whispers Artie into her hair. Brittany feels the sluggish liquid slowing her heartbeat and pretends she's sleeping. She feels him press a kiss to her hair and tries to imagine herself feeling something different.


	15. Dressing room

(Author's Note: Thanks to terriblemuriel for getting me unstuck from the last few scenes. Next chapter is writing itself and should be up soon.

TOTP readers: look for an update after this story is caught up.)

* * *

><p>Things with San aren't totally back to normal, but they're okay. When she gets back from Detroit they go to the mall and eat ice cream by the courtyard fountains. San treats. Her dad has been doing really well in the past couple of months and gives her money all the time. That's the way he tries to show he cares. Like Christmas freshman year when he gave San a fat wad of money instead of a gift. Santana bought matching bracelets for the two of them. Expensive. Chain link. San herself fastened it around Brittany's wrist the first time. Like she was trying to say, <em>at least <em>you _belong to me._

"I love when the gumballs are finally soft," she tells Santana, prying two with her tongue from the pocket of her cheek where she had stored them while eating the ice cream.

"God, I will never get why you like bubble gum ice cream." Santana shakes her head and licks a drip of strawberry to keep it from running down the cone.

"Cause it's two in one. You get ice cream, and then you get gum."

San smiles, shrugs, and looks at her lap in that weird shy way she has now. Brittany wants to shake her sometimes. To remind her who she's talking to.

They've cranked the fountain jets up to summer setting. Mist wets the backs of their shirts as they sit on the lip. Brittany bites the softened gumballs and shatters their sugar shells. They're quiet like that for a few minutes. Santana runs her tongue over the surface of her scoop: not sexy, but careless, like a child, like no one is watching. Brittany is.

"Come over after this?" she asks.

San shakes her head without looking up from her ice cream cone.

"Why not?"

"I said no," she snaps. "Let it go."

The two of them sink back into silence. Brittany's gum is bitter already. It never lasts long. She spits it into a napkin and crumples it into a tight ball in her fist.

* * *

><p>It's funny, but Brittany finds herself doing the same thing to Artie that San is doing to her. She'll spend time with him in public, like at school and in the Lima Bean and at the movies, but she always finds some excuse when he wants her to come over. His kisses have started to taste weird to her.<p>

It's not so simple, though. Brittany loves him—she really does—and the last thing she wants to do is wipe away that brightness from his face that makes her heart float to the top of her chest like a bobbing balloon. He's so happy when they're together that it makes her happy to be with him. And she doesn't have to tiptoe with him. If Artie's a bird, like Santana, then Brittany's a Disney princess: he flies to perch on her hand, or her shoulder, and chirps and hops, and she can dance and sing without scaring him away. It's easy.

Artie's not dumb. He knows things are weird with Santana. Brittany told him it's because San's been stressed out and pulling away. That's true enough. Something in him must know, though. She thinks back to that time they played Mario Kart after Landslide. His cocked eyebrow. Besides, he was on the phone for the sex-is-not-dating slip. If he knows anything, though, he isn't spilling.

"Come over tonight," he asks Brittany at her locker, the afternoon Mr. Schue announces their Born This Way assignment. "Let's work on our shirts together." He grins. It's clear he isn't really talking about making shirts.

San sweeps in on the other side and pretends to ignore them as she opens her locker. She's making too much noise, slamming her books against the back panel like they've done something to annoy her. Brittany tries not to look at her but she feels her shoulders turning slightly away from Artie.

"I've got dance," she says. San pauses with a book in her hand before slipping it into her backpack. San knows her dance schedule. She knows Brittany is lying.

"Tomorrow, then."

"Maybe. Yeah."

The three of them linger—Santana, Brittany, Artie—for just a beat too long. Just long enough that Brittany feels her heart speed up and waits for something to happen.

Nothing does, of course. Artie coughs and shifts, and it's like they've been turned back from stone. San shuts her locker and walks away. Brittany takes the handles of Artie's wheelchair and drives him in the opposite direction. The hallway noise and movement swallows Santana's retreating body.

"So what is your shirt going to say?" she asks Artie, but she forgets to listen to his answer.

* * *

><p>Brittany couldn't be prouder of Santana when she fixes Karofsky. When she comes up in front of the whole Glee Club and defends Kurt in front of everybody. <em>I did this for us, <em>she says, and she doesn't look at Brittany, but Brittany knows exactly who _us_ means. Her heart bobs in her throat.

Or at least, she thought she knew.

Then, when Santana twines her fingers into Karofsky's in front of everyone, the way San would never do with her, Brittany feels like someone's popped her heart with a needle: the collapsed shell drops from her throat to her gut.

It hurts just to see their hands pressed together. She wonders whether San feels this way when she sees Brittany and Artie in the hallways. She pictures Karofsky on top of San, those rough fingers touching her in all of those soft smooth beautiful places Brittany knows as well as she knows her own body. She knows Santana will let him touch her. Maybe he's already had her.

Then, San's hand twitches in his like she wants to let go. Her eyes snag on Brittany's for just one second, but that one second is enough. She's scared. She's still scared. And she won't let go of Dave's hand.

* * *

><p>"We on for tonight?" Artie asks after Glee. After San and Karofsky have left. Brittany still feels stuck to her chair. She shakes her head.<p>

"Modern. I forgot."

Artie huffs.

"Baby, I feel like I haven't seen you in forever."

"That's silly, Artie. I see you every day." She tries to sound light, normal.

"You know what I mean."

"Soon." She pivots on her chair and folds one of his hands between hers. "I promise."

* * *

><p>Brittany has no trouble figuring out what to put on her own shirt. People have been calling her dumb as long as she can remember.<p>

She's in the choir room, after school, alone, standing in the same spot where Santana stood yesterday with Karofsky's hand in hers. She thinks of the instant their eyes met and Brittany felt all of San's love and fear like a punch to the chest.

_I don't want to be with Sam, or Finn, or any of those other guys. _She thinks about how awkward Santana looked at Glee, stiff under the weight of the arm Dave wrapped around her shoulders. She's always been putting on a show when it comes to boys. Brittany doesn't understand why she can't let all of it go. Why she has to keep pretending, even now that Brittany knows.

Santana is never going to wear that word she hates so much on her chest, much less print it on a T-shirt. But then she thinks of a way. There's that one restaurant near her house with the best ever hummus that she thought was called "lesbian food" for the longest time, and wondered how lesbians had special food, until she heard someone say it out loud. Sometimes her brain twists words like that when she reads. But Santana's doesn't.

So maybe she'd wear this. Everyone would know what it meant—but she wouldn't have to say it.

She makes her shirt, and Santana's, and folds and wraps them into one tight bundle that she tucks into her backpack.

* * *

><p>Brittany shouldn't be surprised when Santana refuses to wear the shirt. But she is surprised at how angry she gets at San's refusal.<p>

She's said her piece. The part she planned out before, about how proud she was of Santana for telling her how she felt. That she knows how much it hurt. Which she does, from San, when she refused to sing a duet. The one other time Brittany let herself get angry at Santana.

Now, all San can think to do is swear her to secrecy. Again. And accuse Brittany of not loving her enough. Again.

Brittany's frustration is foaming—boiling—in her chest. And for once, she lets it spill out.

"I _do_ love you. Clearly you don't love you as much as I do or you would put this shirt on and you would dance with me." She shoves the shirt into Santana's arms and leaves her, striding through the halls, burning and miserable.

* * *

><p>The choir room is empty and dark. Brittany decides to skip the first few minutes of math and gather her thoughts.<p>

Brittany stares at the letterpress under its cloth cover and thinks about the fresh warm shirt she'd made for Santana, the black letters slightly rough under her trailing fingers as she imagined San putting it on, holding her hand, lacing their fingers together.

Of course that was never going to happen. She's still so mad she's shaking. She's just sick of it. When Santana shot her down and broke her heart, she got Brittany back right away without even saying she was sorry. Now, even though Brittany keeps telling her she loves her over and over, somehow Santana gets to pout and deny it and push her away? It's not fair.

After all, if it weren't for Santana's shame—shame for Brittany—she would never have been with Artie in the first place.

* * *

><p>Brittany knew Santana wasn't going to show up for the dance. She knew it. But when Sam says she must be making out with Karofsky, Brittany's shocked again at how much she <em>feels <em>hurt, feels it in her body.

Even though San's not there, Brittany dances like she is. Not like when she used to dance for San in the studio, dance lighter and freer and stronger for her eyes, but to show her she can be strong. That even though Santana can still hurt her, she can't break her. And she can't break her down.

Except that Santana is there.

Brittany thinks she's imagining her at first: that still figure near the back of the auditorium, stiff as a little peg in a dollhouse. Right next to Karofksy, who's sitting just as stiff, arms crossed over his chest.

It's then that Brittany sees it. Santana is wearing the Lebanese shirt. No jacket, no vest. Just the shirt: plain and naked.

And just like that—way too easy—all of Brittany's anger melts to pity and desire and love.


	16. First Position

(Author's Note: My perpetual gratitude to terriblemuriel, as well as major thanks to JJ at themostrandomfandom.)

* * *

><p>It never takes much to convince San to make cookies. San loves to bake, and she's good at it. Better than anyone else Brittany knows. It's why Santana was the first to sneer at the idea of a bake sale for Glee last year, and it's why Brittany backed her up—back when she was willing to protect Santana from her own passions.<p>

She can't believe she didn't think of it before. It must be the millionth time she's asked San to come over in the last month, and she folded so easy it was almost funny.

"Let's go up to my room," says Brittany, tugging San's sleeve, as soon as San has pulled out the last sheet and clicked off the oven. San swallows.

"You can go," she says, grabbing the sheet to steady it as she slides the spatula under the first cookie. "I'll just finish this and bring up a plate."

* * *

><p>Brittany does as she's told. She curls up on her bed and squeezes her legs to her chest, trying to ignore how hard her heart is pounding. It seems like so long since San's been up here. She hears through the open door the sounds of metal hitting metal, the sink running, ceramic sliding against the kitchen counter. Then, a stillness.<p>

Finally—the creaking stairs.

When San steps through the door, the smell of the cookies in her hands, fresh and buttery and hot, can't hide the scent of Santana. It's like Brittany is a shark and can pick up a single drop of it in gallons of air—and go crazy from it.

San is nervous. She holds the plate of cookies out to Brittany, watching as she takes one, and then sets the rest down on the desk. She pauses like a spooked deer, eyes flicking around the surfaces of Brittany's room, before she settles down far from Brittany, in the desk chair.

Brittany loosens a little as San pulls her own knees to her chin. She worries apart each bite of cookie with her tongue.

"I missed having you here," she says. She starts to tell Santana how much she missed the way she smells, but realizes, watching San's face growing miserable, that she's about to scare her away. They're quiet again.

"Why won't you come sit with me here?"

"You know why, Britt." Her face flickers the way it did at the mall fountain, the way it did every time this whole month that Brittany asked her to come over. Brittany considers keeping her mouth shut. But this is important.

"Are you still punishing me?" she asks, finally.

"I'm not punishing you." She finally looks at Brittany: soft, honest, open. Brittany can see it's true, and that makes her being so far away feel even worse.

She finally begs. She knows San won't—can't—say no to her when she makes her need so bare. And San doesn't. She gives in and lies down on the other side of the bed. Her body settles, warm and rich with the Santana smell Brittany misses so bad she aches. She's almost forgotten the topnotes layered over her core smell. The sweetness of her laundry soap. Her shampoo. The musk of her sweat.

Brittany closes the gap, works herself into the pocket of Santana, into the soft spots of her body. It's home. She forgets everything else: Artie, Karofsky, the lockers, her bursts of anger, this last terrible month that she's only now realizing has been so terrible. Her ear is pressed to San's chest, and she can feel the swells of the breath San is trying to keep even and slow, and the too-quick too-hard heartbeat that gives her away.

"It's okay, San," Brittany whispers. She swallows, trying not to ask what everything in her is dying to ask. It would be wrong. Brittany knows that. It's not fair to Santana. But she wants it so badly. She feels her own heart speeding up to match Santana's, spreading into the pit of her throat and between her thighs. In the end, she can't stop herself.

"What we do isn't cheating, remember?"

San's lips part. A voiceless sigh cracks her throat, and her heartbeat is suddenly so crazy fast and hard in Brittany's ear that Brittany is afraid she's going to have a heart attack.

"It isn't, right?" she pushes. _Say something, _she begs Santana, silently, waiting. _Just say something._

"Right." San's voice is hoarse, tight, wet.

Brittany tilts to press her lips to San's breast. She can't remember the last time she wanted her this bad. San is shaking as Brittany covers her chest in light kisses, kisses that spread and get damper as Brittany's mouth reaches the bare skin of Santana's neck.

When Brittany fits her mouth to Santana's, she realizes, _this _is what a kiss is supposed to feel like. She hardly tastes the cookies: just San, and the rightness of her. San's thighs drift open and Brittany's body takes the hint. Santana opens and softens as Brittany's body settles into hers. Once their jeans are grinding together, Brittany can smell how wet Santana is. San moans. Brittany can feel San squeezing her eyes shut as they kiss, as they move, locked together, on the bed. Santana is still shaking like she can't get warm. It scares Brittany.

"Santana." She calls San back to her. "Open your eyes."

"I can't—I—"

Then something cracks. San gives out under her with a cry so desperate Brittany is afraid she's broken her. But instead, her hips are driving into Brittany's, and once she realizes what's happening, Brittany clings to her, kisses her, helps her ride out her climax. Keeps her in that sweet safe place as long as possible. Because she knows what's about to happen, and it does, as soon as their hips slow and settle: Santana breaks into tears.

Everything rushes back then, everything that had vanished. Artie. Karofsky's fingers laced in San's. The image of his dirty meaty hands on her: on this body that belongs here, against Brittany's. She feels her throat tightening as she presses herself close to San, kisses her, touches her, comforts her. She'd been wrong to start this. Unfair. Not just to Artie—to Santana.

But she can't let her go now. Not tonight, not like this.

"Stay the night," she begs, knowing again that San won't refuse her.

And San doesn't.

* * *

><p>The whole night is kind of unreal: like a dream. Brittany thinks about taking care of Santana after her summer surgery. The way she did the same things she is doing now. Taking off San's clothes and working her helpless limbs into pajamas. Stroking her hair behind her ears. Kissing her forehead. It's not quite the same, though. Now San's body is whole and her heart is broken.<p>

Turning off the lights, Brittany climbs into bed, pulls the sheets over both of them, and wraps her body around Santana's, just holding her. San stiffens and twitches for a minute before finally relaxing into Brittany's arms. Their breathing slows from syncopated to synchronized.

"San?" she whispers. "You still awake?"

"Yeah. Course I am."

Brittany pulls her body in tighter and presses a hard kiss to San's shoulder. San's body feels so small all of a sudden. She imagines how much smaller Santana must feel to Karofsky. Then the rage and unhappiness at the thought of him touching her charge Brittany's heartbeat against her ribs.

"What is it, Britt?" San presses Brittany's palm to her lips and closes Brittany's fingers around the kiss to hold it in, exactly the way that when they were younger, just before Santana dropped Brittany at her door after school, she'd give Brittany a spare kiss to hold onto.

"Are you sleeping with him?" Brittany forces out his name. "Karofsky?"

San's pulse beats back against Brittany's body, but she shakes her head.

"No. Of course not. We—I mean, he—doesn't want…" She trails off, and Brittany doesn't push: she just waits. "Well," she finishes, "that's not what it's about."

Brittany has no idea what that means. But she thinks of Karofsky, stuck stiffly at Santana's side in the auditorium as she looked down at her Lebanese shirt. She knows San is telling her the truth: he hasn't touched her.

_Thank you, _Brittany sighs super-quiet into San's neck, without quite knowing why she says it. Brittany kisses the down of San's neck and the rims of her ears. She licks the sweat from the crazy soft patch of skin at the hinge of her jaw, the way a mama cat might lick her baby. San doesn't react like a kitten. Her breath catches. She rolls over in Brittany's arms and slides a knee between Brittany's thighs. She kisses Brittany's nose and cheeks and sighs between kisses like she can't get a deep enough breath.

"Santana, are you sure you want to do this?" Brittany whispers, setting a hand on San's cheek.

"Yes." It's so soft it's almost a sigh.

With that _yes_, Brittany lets herself sink into wanting Santana. She can't hear herself breathe for the noise of her heartbeat in her ears, thudding in the pit of her as San's mouth fits to hers. They slide and lock into their old position: that first position, and like the first time, they're too feverish with nerves and longing even to take off their pajamas. San's a mess: she's soaked through the soft shorts Brittany loaned her. Brittany's hand slides under her waistband and between her legs and she bites down on the fabric covering Brittany's shoulder as if it hurts. The hot stale air trapped under the blankets smells sharp, like frustration.

"Inside me," she begs Brittany. Her voice is tight, close to tears again.

"Look at me first." She lifts her other hand from San's bare ribs and tilts her chin so their faces are an inch apart and she can feel San's breath on her lips.

San obeys: she opens her eyes. They're strange: darker and deeper than Brittany's ever seen them. Brittany feels dizzy, unanchored, like she's just been dropped into an endless hole. Then, as Brittany slides two fingers inside her, San's eyes turn liquid, and suddenly it's like Brittany can see _all _of her. It's nothing like with Artie. Brittany feels like she's being swallowed whole. She's never felt closer to anyone, ever.

But it's hardly a second before San loses her nerve and buries her nose in Brittany's neck. She kisses the same place over and over and slips her hand under Brittany's shorts, curling two fingers up inside her with no warning and pulling her hips closer by the inner hook. Brittany wants so badly to bring San's eyes back to her, but she knows that moment is gone.

It never takes them long like this. Santana comes first. Brittany is seconds behind. After the first time, they keep moving, struggling, knowing that the moment they stop they'll have to start thinking again. They cling hard to each other and to the edge—even as their grip fails and they fall, again, together, they can't look down.


	17. Brisé

(Author's Note: Thanks for your patience. I hope the length of this chapter makes amends for the long hiatus.

Thanks as always to my excellent first readers - who saw very little of this chapter due to my haste in posting - for their early directional affirmation. A particular note of acknowledgement for JJ's heartbreaking post on Brittany's hair in Fondue for Two, which figures in this version of events.

Next: The Only True Paradises, Chapter 18.)

* * *

><p>By the time Brittany wakes up, San's side of the bed is empty. Through the drawn veil of the curtains, a cold shadow of light filters in. With a familiar ache, Brittany feels the place where Santana should be, like a starched ghost stretched along her side. She pulls the covers over her mouth and tries to sleep again.<p>

A muffled buzz in her backpack shakes her from the haze. Artie's text chime.

Groaning, Brittany tosses off her covers, pads over to her backpack, and digs her phone from the pit. Snapping it open, she sees a screen full of sealed envelope icons. Artie. Artie. Artie. Artie. Artie. She starts with the oldest, stamped 6:22 pm the night before, when she and Santana were downstairs in the kitchen.

_Hey baby want to chill tonight_

7:04 pm. _What r u up to_

9:57 pm. _Um u mad or something_

11:31 pm. _What did I do? Sorry for whatever it is_

1:49 am. _Getting worried babe at least tell me ur ok_

And now this one:

9:23 am. _Seriously Brittany r u alive?_

She imagines Artie typing the texts. Checking his chunky watch. They'd chimed, unnoticed, unchecked, while Brittany held Santana and forgot that time or anything else existed. Kissing her mouth. Touching her warm skin. Moving inside her.

The last thought makes her shiver all over again. The image, the smell, the sensation of the moment when Santana opened her eyes and suddenly Brittany was completely inside her. It was like the moment when Santana brought her fingers to her lips after sliding them out of Brittany for the first time. Brittany feels just as sure that everything has changed.

What that means, though—well, Brittany's learning to be patient.

She taps out a quick reply to Artie.

_im fine santana slept over phone still in my bag sry_

After sending the text, she burrows back into bed, pulling Santana's pillow against her chest and breathing in the traces of scent San left behind.

* * *

><p>Now that the Brainiacs are finished for the year, Brittany's brain feels like a balloon that's just been deflated after having been blown up to its full size for the first time. Wider. Looser. Like she's got stretch marks. She can't go back to nothing without feeling hungry somehow.<p>

It's filming her little sister's softball game that gives her a new idea. One of her sister's teammates has a big sister in eighth grade who always brings one of about three rotating friends. The two girls spend the game at the top of the bleachers, dipping bits of soft snack bar pretzel into nacho cheese while gossiping about their classmates at Brittany's and San's old middle school. Brittany hears the unfamiliar names and wonders if she and San sounded as silly back then as these girls do now, swapping the latest news of this cute boy or that nerdy girl with such sticky pleasure.

Still, she thinks, training the lens briefly on the two giggling girls before panning back to her sister on second base, they always seem super happy: just two girls, together, sharing easy secrets like they're in the shelter of one of their bedrooms.

By the time she approaches Lauren Zizes to ask to borrow a cameraman from the AV club, Brittany's already picked out a name for her talk show.

"It'll be called 'Fondue for Two,'" she tells Lauren, "and I'm just going to put it up on YouTube, but it would look so much better if, like, someone was actually filming it. My cat is always knocking over my tripod."

"Yeah. No problem." Lauren looks her over. "I owe you after that solo you choreographed for me."

Brittany shrugs.

"Throw in a case of Almond Joys for the next AV Club meeting and I'll get someone on it."

"Deal."

* * *

><p>The <em>someone<em> Lauren gets on it is a dark-haired girl with wide cheekbones and even wider eyes. She walks up to Brittany the next morning at her lockers with a digital camcorder in her hand.

"Hi," she bubbles. "I'm Mackensie. Zizes sent me." She nods toward the camcorder.

"Hey, Mackensie." Brittany smiles. "I'm Brittany Pierce."

"Yeah, I know who _you _are." She says it like it's obvious, like everyone knows who Brittany is. "Wow, you're _really_ pretty up close."

"Thanks." Brittany smiles and shrugs.

"So, like, do you have a minute to talk about what you want to do with the show?"

"I don't know. I guess it's pretty simple, just… tape us talking."

"Oh, come on," coaxes Mackensie. "Let's at least do, like, a theme song."

Brittany gives in, and actually, it's super fun. They storyboard it over lunch and do a series of quick shots in various rooms of the school over the next couple of days. Mackensie promises to edit it together into something cool. She's nice enough, if a little too excited about their time together. A freshman, in about six clubs, obsessed with popularity, and lists becoming a Cheerio among her top five life ambitions.

"I can't believe you just _quit,_" she confesses in the hallway as Brittany shuts her locker. "You _and_ Santana Lopez _and_ Quinn Fabray. Just like that."

"Well—Coach Sylvester isn't really that nice to her students," Brittany points out. She rummages for her car keys. "It can be—it's not easy, you know."

"Who cares?" Mackensie sighs. "When you're a Cheerio, nothing can touch you."

Across the hall, Brittany spots San threading her way through the crowd. She brushes a loose piece of hair behind her ear just before ducking out of the way of a darting boy. She used to spring through the halls, pronging like one of those stags in Bambi, the ringlets of her ponytail and the fringe of her skirt flouncing with each footfall. Now she picks among clusters of other students just like anyone else: dodging and being dodged, clutching a notebook to her chest like a shield.

Unaware that Brittany's attention has drifted away, Mackensie keeps talking.

"You know Coach Sylvester's starting up the school newspaper again? I signed up so I can get in good with her. You should join too. First meeting's this Thursday. Everyone's supposed to prepare a blind item pitch."

"Sure. Maybe." After Santana disappears into a classroom, Brittany smiles at Mackensie and jingles the keys hooked over her finger. "So. Ready to come to my place and shoot the real thing?"

* * *

><p>The icon stares back at her. Mackensie's email attachment. There it is: the final cut of "Fondue for Two."<p>

No subject line. No body.

Brittany's pulse drifts from her chest to her fingertips, her gullet, the tips of her ears. She feels almost dizzy, sick with anticipation, as she opens it and watches the opening sequence Mackensie cut together.

And suddenly, there she is, centered in Mackensie's handheld shot—Mackensie had insisted on setting up another camera on a tripod to get a different angle—speaking to the camera in her best radio voice. Mercedes and Tina are absorbed in twirling their forks in the fondue pot. They were quick to say yes to Brittany when she asked them to be her first guests.

It was so exciting, so homey, to have them there in her room at last, just the way she had imagined, spearing and dipping the cubed bread and evenly-cut vegetables Brittany had prepared the night before. Everything seemed to be going so perfectly.

The ease she felt must be why she let it slip—that one stupid phrase about Santana.

She realized how stupid it was as soon as it was out of her mouth. Even if she hadn't, the expressions that bloomed on the faces of all three of the other girls—Mercedes, Tina, Mackensie—would have told her. She felt her stomach twisting, tightening into a knot.

Scraping up Lord Tubbington and letting him bury his head in the fondue pot was the fastest distraction she could think of. It worked for a minute. But she tied off the episode fast—way faster than she'd planned. Her stomach was knotted too tight to ignore now. The feeling started to tug at her throat.

The bright face and soft voice on the video that close the program look like her. But behind her careful camera face, the real Brittany was already pulling herself into pieces. Stupid. Stupid.

"Seriously, that's it? That's all we're filming?" Mercedes had asked, scooting away her fondue plate. Tina tapped a floret of broccoli against her lip. Mackensie stopped the camera on the tripod. Three pairs of eyes, and silence.

Brittany shrugged. _Keep it together._ "The next one is going to be longer."

After Tina and Mercedes left, Brittany drove Mackensie home.

"I'll cut it all together and send it to you," she said.

"Great. Thanks for your help."

"Sure. It was fun."

The silence in the car was so stuffy that Brittany opened the driver and passenger windows to half-mast. _Not much longer. Keep it together._

Finally, Mackensie cleared her throat.

"So is it really true? About Santana?"

Brittany gulped.

"Yeah. She—she isn't on the Cheerios anymore," she improvised. "She's on Glee. And we're a team because we're going to Nationals, like the Cheerios do. Well. Except this year, since… you know."

"Huh." Brittany could hear a sneaky smile in Mackensie's voice. She didn't buy it. Brittany felt sick.

Waiting for Mackensie to send the final cut was the longest three hours of her life. And now, watching her own face for any flicker of emotion that would betray what she really meant by "the other team" is torture. She watches that handful of seconds over and over and over. She lets almost none of it show. Almost.

That doesn't stop Mercedes and Tina's shocked faces when Mackensie cuts to their reaction shot. Brittany stops when she can't stand to watch those expressions one more time.

What should she do? She _could_ just not post the video.

No, that won't work. She remembers Mackensie's hungry little look. The too-sharp, too eager edge to her voice when she asked whether it was true. She remembers the blind-item assignment for the first newspaper meeting. The way Mackensie would probably give a kidney to win Coach Sylvester's favor.

Not posting it would prove that Brittany—that Santana—had something to hide.

So it's for love that Brittany uploads the video that will out Santana. It's to keep San safe that she clicks _submit_.

But later, reading and re-reading San's text—_britt wtf?_—and feeling the weight of the fact that she can't take any of it back settle like a cinderblock on her ribs, she wonders, guiltily and secretly, whether something in her meant to do it.

* * *

><p>In the end, Brittany does join the newspaper. Mostly she just wants to keep an eye on Mackensie.<p>

Then again, as much as she hates to admit it, Brittany does miss Coach Sylvester sometimes. More, actually, after Mr. Schuester questioned her about the Brainiacs and made her feel so stupid in front of everyone in Glee Club. That'd punched a hole in her gut. She'd thought Mr. Schue believed in her. When Sue Sylvester yells at you, it may not be fair, but at least she's doing it because she thinks you're capable of doing better. Like Brittany's old ballet teacher.

It feels good to have someone expect _more_ of her. Not just of her body—she gets plenty of that kind already—but of her mind.

She expected Santana to yell at her. To do _something_. But apart from the text, San hasn't said a word.

At least, not until the first _Muckraker_.

Brittany thought about throwing Mackensie off the scent, but she never thought about anyone else. For starters, Jacob Ben Israel—blogger gossip king of McKinley—who must have sucked that video clean for every possible rumor, like Lord Tubbington snout-deep in the fondue pot.

Stupid. Stupid. _Stupid_.

Whoever it was, someone said something. Brittany flips to the blind items right away, and there it is. Something about a cheerleader in the closet.

San is going to kill her.

When Santana charges at her in the choir room, a copy of the _Muckraker _in her fist, Brittany just repeats the story she made up for Mackensie. She can't begin to explain the truth. She doesn't know if San could forgive her if she did. She sees in San's eyes how scared she is. You could scrape her anger away with a fingernail and see that soft stiffened-doe fear.

In that moment, Brittany's cowardice and shame turns to longing. She wants to hold Santana and kiss her and make her not afraid anymore. She wants to point to everyone around and say, see? They don't mind.

When Santana storms away, that's the thought that clings to Brittany, clings uselessly and wordlessly to her lips.

The fantasy evaporates when she glances down to see Artie staring right at her.

* * *

><p>"Hang out tonight?" asks Artie, rolling up to her locker after school.<p>

Brittany swings the door shut. "Not tonight. I have—"

"Jazz. Modern. No, you're babysitting your sister." He pauses. "You have plans with Santana."

Brittany's heart leaps a little at her name.

"Recording another 'Fondue for Two,' actually," she says quietly.

"Well, what about tomorrow?"

"_Muckraker._"

Artie squeezes his eyes shut, adjusts his glasses, and looks back up at her.

"Just tell me."

Tell you what?"

"What I did."

She crouches down and takes his hands, running her thumbs over the palms of his gloves, as if she's about to tell him something important. She wants to badly to tell him—something—but she reaches in and scrapes every part of herself and emerges with nothing solid to give him.

"Nothing," she says, finally. "You did nothing."

She stays crouched for what feels like hours, her eyes at the level of his, trying to read something in his eyes through the cloudy, smudged lenses of his glasses. Finally, her haunches and the balls of her feet get sore. When her legs begin to quiver, she rises again, tottering, to her full height and leans against the lockers. Artie rubs the armrests of his wheelchair.

"Brittany, I'm not an idiot. Something's going on. Talk to me."

"Couldn't I just be busy?" He's pushing too hard. Her guilt begins to curdle into annoyance.

"Fine." He heaves a sigh and twists his wheels, nearly backing into the lockers. "See you tomorrow then."

As she watches him leave, Brittany feels that knot in her belly again. Is it guilt? Anger? Worry? For Artie, or for Santana? She can hardly tell the difference anymore—which feels worse than anything.

* * *

><p>Brittany's second guest on "Fondue for Two" is Lauren Zizes, who isn't nearly as talkative as Mercedes and Tina, but who has a mean mouth on her and volleys gossip like a champ. Their cubes of meat sizzle in the fondue chocolate. It's a little rare in the middle but the grain splits, seared and warm and satisfying, between Brittany's teeth. Mackensie tries dipping in a chunk of steak after they film the segment and spits the bitten morsel into her napkin, cringing.<p>

"This is disgusting," she says. "How can you guys, like, _eat _this?"

Brittany and Lauren exchange quick grins.

Even though it was probably Mackensie who submitted that stupid blind item, Brittany can't bring herself to confront her about it. She convinces herself it was Jacob Ben Israel. After all, the kid has made it his personal mission to unearth every dirty wriggling secret in the hot dirt bed of McKinley High. It's easy not to hate him for it. It's deep inside him, this instinct to dig and pry and hoard and reveal—like a badger, or a magpie. How can you hate someone for acting on natural instinct?

It's barely an hour this time before the final cut flashes into her inbox from Mackensie. Again: no subject, no body.

San texts her a few minutes after the upload.

_haha britt good show_

Brittany can't sort out how much of the churning of her insides is relief that San's not mad anymore and how much is guilt over her lie.

They haven't talked about what happened in Brittany's bed last week. It's still playing over and over inside Brittany, though, warming the contents of her chest from somewhere underneath the way the heating coil warms the contents of her fondue pot. It's threatening to boil over. She doesn't know what to do now. As the deep heartache Santana's eyes planted in her begins to sprout and flower, she's come to grips with what she really wants. The moment Santana came out, the moment she was ready to hold Brittany's hand in the hallways and kiss her by the lockers, Brittany would fly from Artie's side to hers like a streak of light.

But she knows that's not going to happen anytime soon. And she can't let herself sink back into that place she was in before Artie: tiptoeing, nervous, aching for something Santana refused to give her.

Still, something inside is telling her: _keep waiting._

* * *

><p>"What's going on with you and Santana?"<p>

Brittany jolts. She hadn't even noticed Artie rolling up to her locker. Stopping at the same spot where he asked last week what he had done wrong.

Only this time, instead of digging for the problem, he's driven a pick deep into its core.

"Nothing." The word comes out like a cough after a blow to her solar plexus. She keeps her face straight. God, here it comes. This moment she didn't even realize she'd been dreading since the first "Fondue for Two."

No. Longer than that. Since she started sleeping with Santana behind Artie's back.

"That doesn't sound like nothing. It sounds like something, which is almost always more than nothing." His eyes are darting around. He's been nervous to ask her about this. But not nearly as nervous as Brittany is to be asked.

"Calm down, Artie," she says, meaning to sound soothing, but nerves pinch her voice high and sharp.

"Are you cheating on me with her?"

"No," she says, locking her mouth into a light smile, but she can't quite look at him. "Of course not. I mean—"

She's lying now. She knows it. And she's a terrible liar. But then—it comes to her. A way to tie off all the ends without anyone hating her for it. How could anyone hate her, when they thought she didn't understand? Knowing that loving Santana, loving with her body, form part of who she is? How could anyone hate her for acting on natural instinct?

"I can't. She's a girl. Fooling around with her isn't cheating; it's just friends talking with their tongues super-close." She shuts her locker as if an uglier, more painful truth were about to slip out of it.

"Who told you that?"

"Santana." Actually, she'd made it up on the spot. But it seemed simpler to tell him it was San—that way, he wouldn't grill her.

How Artie responds shocks her. As he tells her he doubts that what they had was ever real, that he can't imagine why the hottest girl in the school would date him, Brittany starts to feel sicker and sicker. How long has he felt this way? Does he only like being with her because she's hot and popular? She thinks back on all of those times it felt like he was indulging her. When he made her feel like a child.

"If I know you spend even a little time sharing yourself with someone else," he goes on, "that there's one other person in your life that can provide for you things that I'm supposed to provide, it's just too much for me to take." His face hardens. "And Santana knows that. She's taking advantage of it to break us up."

And then she sees it. How much he hates Santana. How little he understands Brittany. How little he understands about how much Santana means to her, and—worse—how little he wants to understand. All for the sake of his pride.

Brittany flares up—hard. He can't talk about Santana that way. He just can't.

"No," she snaps, "everybody thinks she's a bad person, but she's not."

"God, Brittany, why are you so stupid?"

Everything stops. Brittany's ears are ringing. She can't hear her own heartbeat. She feels emptied of everything inside her skin, down to the muscle and bone—so mothwing-thin that she feels like Artie's breath will crumple her. Then, everything fills again, with a hot liquid ache. For the first time in years, she feels herself beginning to cry.

"You're the only person in this school who never called me that," she says.

Then she flies, far, fast, into the arms of the only person in the school who she doesn't even need to mention never calls her stupid, because she's always Brittany's exception.

Santana.

* * *

><p>San drives her home with only one hand on the steering wheel. The other traces the lines of Brittany's palm and wrist, resting open like a flower on the center console. Brittany lets her eyes flutter shut and focuses on the warmth of Santana's skimming fingertips. Every time San touches her now, she can feel love oozing through San's skin: hungry, lonely love that has been trapped inside her so long she can't help it from coming out now that she's split and revealed the vein.<p>

Taking her by the hand, Santana unlocks Brittany's door and leads her up to her room. After sitting her down on the bed, slipping off her shoes, and kissing her temple, she tilts up Brittany's chin and looks her in the eyes.

"You're supposed to have modern today, right?"

"Yeah." Brittany's belly sinks. She'd forgotten about that.

"Don't worry," San tells her, stroking Brittany's temple with her thumb, as if she could read her thoughts. "I'll call in sick for you."

She pads downstairs, leaving Brittany's bedroom door open. Brittany hears her calling from the house phone and faking Brittany's mom's crispest phone voice: a voice San's heard so many times over the years that she can fake it as well as she can Brittany's mom's signature. She tells whoever's on the other line that Brittany has a touch of fever but should be well enough to attend the next class. Yes, of course they'll forfeit the class fee. Thanks for their understanding.

"Your mom never has to know," says San, returning to snuggle in beside Brittany on the bed and cradle Brittany's body into her own. She kisses the crown of Brittany's head, digs her nose into Brittany's hair, and then, as if remembering something, gives a sharp sigh and falls back on the pillow. Her fingers rake through the strands of Brittany's hair and sweep it back from her brow and neck.

"I'm done with him," Brittany whispers into San's chest. She can feel San's muscles twitch beneath her head as San nods.

They lie still, entwined, and say nothing. Brittany's mind drifts over the preceding hours and riffles through images and touches and words. The word _stupid, _fresh from Artie's lips, stinging her ears. Santana's _love you _in the hallway setting off a shiver through Brittany's body.

Part of her wants San to say something now. To declare herself. To claim Brittany. To ask what happens next. But another part—a bigger part—feels desperately tired for reasons she can't quite explain. Torn open in a way she didn't expect. She still feels like a rag doll between them, but instead of tugged in two directions, she feels like she's been dropped to the floor.

"Sleep now," whispers San into her hair. "I've got you."

Brittany lets San pull her deeper into her side. Lets San pick her up from the cold floor and press her to her heart. She lets herself fall asleep, safe, all thinking and dreaming forgotten in the familiar bed of Santana's arms.

* * *

><p>Brittany wakes up in the middle of the night still in her clothes, tucked into her sheets. The street clothes scratch her skin and she wants to switch to a sleep shirt, but she feels the ridge of duvet pressed under her side and doesn't want to unravel this little thing Santana has done for her.<p>

Her phone is on her bedside table, and when she pulls her arm out carefully to set an alarm for the morning, she finds that San has already done it. There's a text, too.

_pick u up at 7. love you britt. s_

It's so much at once. Brittany's throat is thick with love. And yet she feels a waxing soreness deep in her, a cavity, where Artie was plucked out. It hurts now. It really hurts. The way her whole mouth hurt after her cavities had been scraped clean at the dentist, once the anesthesia wore off.

After all—if fixing this mess were going to be easy, she'd have done it a long time ago.

* * *

><p>Something's different about San when she comes to pick Brittany up the next morning. She hums a little, a few floating notes at a time, and then stops the melody in her throat with a small secret grin. They don't talk much, but San darts a couple of quick glances at her through the rearview mirror, and Brittany can't help the feeling swelling inside her that something is going to happen today.<p>

Well—something besides the thing that has to happen. The thing that's pinning her, heavy, to her seat. She has to officially break up with Artie.

"Feeling okay, Britt Britt?" San asks her just after shifting into park in the school lot. She surveys the surrounding cars before pressing Brittany's palm to her lips. "Gonna make it today?"

"Yeah," she says. Her voice tugs at her throat. "I think so."

"Okay." San glides her hands uselessly over the steering wheel for a moment before continuing. "Will you do me a favor?"

"Yeah. Of course."

"Come to the choir room after school. We—I—I just need to show you something."

* * *

><p>Approaching Artie at his locker after lunch—the longest she could put it off—Brittany feels like she's in one of those dreams where someone is chasing her and she's hobbled, or her feet are made of lead, and she can't move forward. But she has to. Finally, she's leaning against the next locker, waiting for him to pivot his chair.<p>

He doesn't. Instead, he closes his locker and presses his hand over the vents.

"You're here to break up with me, aren't you?"

"Yes."

They stay still, waiting—waiting for nothing—as sound and footsteps and the dull bells of slamming lockers fly around them.

Finally, Artie pulls his hand from the locker and rests it in his lap. He glances at her—close to her eyes, but pointedly not meeting them.

"I'm sorry, you know. I shouldn't have—"

"I know," Brittany cuts him off.

"I guess that doesn't change anything."

"No." Silence.

"So I guess I was right," he says miserably. "It _was _too good to be true."

"It wouldn't have been," Brittany begins. "If only…" But the rest of her sentence hovers, half-formed, and disintegrates. What good would it do now to explain?

"Just tell me one thing. How long was it going on? Between you and her? I mean, after we started dating?"

Brittany hesitates. She grates her teeth over her lip. "Do you really want to know?"

He reflects for a moment, grows cold. Hard.

"No. I guess not." The way he twists his head away wrings Brittany's heart and throat into a dry hard knot.

* * *

><p>For the rest of the day, Brittany bobs and wavers, to the point of seasickness, between the dull ache of her breakup with Artie and the soft fizzing anticipation of San's secret.<p>

By the time she walks into the choir room after school, Santana and Brad are already there. San is bent over the corner of the piano, but she springs upright as soon as she sees Brittany in the doorway. She retreats to the end of the piano and runs her hand over the inner curve, inviting Brittany into the crook. Brittany comes to her and leans over the closed lid, resting her weight on it as if on the deck of a ship.

"How are you holding up, Britt?" San leans over her. Brittany can smell the perfume and sweat that cling to her thin white top. She closes her eyes for a moment and draws the scent in like a sip of warm milk.

"I'm so sad," she admits. "Like a sad little panda." And a little nervous—but she doesn't tell San that part.

"Well, that's why I brought you here." Brittany looks up at Santana, who holds her gaze. "To cheer you up." She takes Brittany's hand, and Brittany lets San lead her like a child—the way she did last night, when they were alone. "I've been going through that _Rumours_ album," San continues, handing her into a chair, "and I found the best song that really goes one step past Landslide in expressing my feelings for you." She pauses. "My private feelings."

The old Brittany would've been careful not to glance at Brad. The new Brittany, though—she's braver than that.

"What about him?" she points out.

"He's just furniture," says San, glancing back at him. And Brittany's waiting heart is pounding too hard now to ask any more questions. She waits, still, as Santana, backed up against the piano, fidgets through the piano introduction as if summoning something from the air.

Then, she begins to sing.

From her perch in the crook of the piano, San searches the air until her eyes are locked into the deepest groove of Brittany's. Her hands are restless. Fluttering. She doesn't know what to do with them. Brittany, flushed with sudden fear, holds still. Santana is her little brown bird again, and Brittany is terrified of scaring her away.

But little by little, a miracle happens. As Brittany dampens her smile and softens her breath, Santana moves toward her. She's singing _I love you, _over and over, her honeyed voice rich and soft, and Brittany doesn't know how anything existed before this moment, how the world will go on after. Keeping still and quiet, Brittany wills this song to linger forever, for San to flit closer and closer until they fuse together into a single breath, a single heartbeat. Santana is so close—so close—and the flick of her shoulders as she sings a final _I love you _feels like complete surrender.

Then it's over. Santana has nothing to lean against, nothing to hide behind. Her eyes are deep, pleading, desperate. The room falls quiet. Brittany knows it is up to her to speak. But what is she supposed to say? Where does she start?

In the end, her deep, too-brave, too-hungry longing wins out.

"Wait—so why couldn't you sing that to me in front of everyone? Now that Artie and I aren't together?"

San blots a tear from her lower lashes with her fingertip. "No. Not yet." Her eyes dart away, and she turns to retreat to her perch in the crook of the piano. She tells Brittany she's not ready to deal with going public. When San confesses her pain and humiliation from the _Muckraker _fallout_, _Brittany feels a shudder of regret. It's her fault San feels like this. All from that first "Fondue for Two."

And then—she has another idea.

"Well, what if I went first?" She follows San to the shelter of the piano. "Come on 'Fondue for Two.'" Santana's face bares such trust and fear that Brittany feels her nerves fluttering all over and inside her, like feathers spreading out under her skin. "I'll… ask you out to the prom, and"—San's flash of a smile gives Brittany a little more courage—"I'll tell you how I feel. And all you have to do is say yes."

Now it's her turn to wait.

After just a moment, to Brittany's shock, Santana looks up and nods.

"Okay," she says, and pulls Brittany into her arms so hard that Brittany feels her feathery nerves retract and settle. She's reeling and punch drunk and wants to pause everything, hovering, at the point of this embrace—before something else comes to drag her under.

* * *

><p>If "Fondue for Two" was where all the trouble started, it's going to be the place where the trouble is fixed. Right?<p>

Brittany arranges with Mackensie to come over the next day after school—well, after AV club—and set up the cameras. She wears the new cardigan she bought last week. While she's waiting for San, she curls her hair and puts on a fresh coat of mascara. Her heart is racing. It feels a little like that afternoon sophomore year, when they made love—and it _was_ making love, she knows now—in the sunlight for the first time. That too-tight beautiful terrible feeling.

She knows what she's going to say, of course. She scribbled it down and scratched out and added phrases and practiced it silently during her classes. She's going to tell Santana that she's been drawn to her since the moment she saw her in the fifth grade. That she started to fall for her that summer before high school. That last year, she finally realized she was in love with her. That she's never loved anyone or anything the way she loves Santana. And that she knows she'll love her forever.

When she hears San's text chime, she grabs her phone and glances out the window in case San's car has pulled up while she wasn't paying attention. Nothing to see. A strange dread squeezes her stomach as she opens Santana's text.

_i cant_

Brittany feels dizzy. Nauseated. She sits down at the edge of her bed, sets her phone next to her on the duvet, and stares at her knees. She's not coming. Santana's not coming.

What does she do now?

By the time Lauren drops off Mackensie, Brittany's spent the last god-knows-how-long volleying between anger and regret. One moment, she wants to slap Santana for humiliating her like this. For knocking her off a cloud and sending her plummeting into a rocky pit. The next moment, she feels like she deserves it for pushing Santana so hard, when all San had tried to do was sing to her how she feels. She hates herself for being so impatient. All she had to do was stay still and Santana would have come to her. Instead, she'd lunged and spooked her into flight.

Well, either way, it's done now.

When Mackensie comes, she interviews Lord Tubbington.

"This'll be the last show," Brittany tells Mackensie after they finish recording the show. She stirs the cheese with a breadstick while Mackensie licks a drip off the end of her own. "Thanks for your help."

"Yeah. Sure. Anytime."

* * *

><p>When Brittany sees Santana at school the next day, a jolt goes through the quick of her, like someone stuck a needle into her molar root. She wants to shake her and ask why, why abandon her now? If she loves Brittany so much, what is so hard about being together? Isn't that what she said she wanted all along?<p>

The article Brittany submitted to the _Muckraker _about Mr. Schuester blazes across the front page. Normally, she'd have had San or Artie look over something like this before she turned it in. Instead, this one has been cut apart and rearranged and ratcheted up two gears by Jacob Ben Israel. Brittany almost feels bad, but then she remembers the snide little way, in their interview, that Mr. Schue had told her he didn't think she was "the journalist type." How satisfying it was to outwit him and make him stutter. She only wishes she could share the triumph with someone.

Now, she has no one.

Brittany's applying a fresh layer of eyeshadow when a twinge in her heart alerts her to San's voice nearby. She glances over to the doorway of the classroom across the hall to see Santana in front of Jacob Ben Israel's microphone. Her eyes dart from Jacob to Brittany as she tells him she and Dave are going strong. The eyeshadow palette in her hand lowers, forgotten, as Brittany listens.

"So you two are in love?" drawls Jacob, clearly not buying it. "Soulmates, so to speak?"

Brittany is frozen to the floor. Her heartbeat muffles out every sound but the one she's waiting for: Santana's voice. San glances at her with the strangest eyes Brittany has ever seen—a swirling mess of love, regret, shame, fear, and pleading.

Pleading for what?

"Yeah," says Santana at last, and Brittany feels the word like a kick that finally breaks open her sore, sluggish, reeling heart. "Yeah. I'd say that's accurate."

When San turns on her heels with one last glance and flies out of sight, Brittany slowly shuts her locker and slumps against it. The vents press ridges into her back. She closes her eyes and tries to remember what she felt like just last week: loved—not abandoned—by two people at once.


	18. Waltz

For a day after Santana told Jacob Ben Israel that Dave Karofsky was her soulmate while her eyes bored into Brittany's, Brittany can't feel anything but anger and heartbreak. It's like her heart is a crumpled ball of paper that's been lit on fire at the edges; she feels the corners of herself curling in and blackening. She comes home looking so pale and wrung that her mom asks her if she's sick and heats her some soup.

By the second day, her anger has dimmed and cooled, like the fire has hidden deep in the core of her chest. She can smile; she can pretend. Her mom's hand presses to a calm, dry forehead.

The third day, she feels dried-leaf-thin and used up. Her anger is eating itself into regret. Why did she push so hard? How could she think Santana was ready? San _told_ her she wasn't ready.

The fourth day, she's beginning to crumble. She thinks her cheeks might look a little thinner. From regret, maybe, but mostly from loneliness. Her phone is quiet, when she's used to Santana-Artie-Santana, text after text. While sunning herself in the backyard, picking apart and shredding pieces of grass, she finds a four-leaf clover, and her pain quiets a little until she realizes there's no one to tell. Then she feels even worse.

Every day as she walks down the hallways, Santana and Karofsky stare at her, cold and still, from those stupid prom campaign posters. But the real Santana, her San, is afraid of looking at her.

On the fifth day after Santana broke her heart, Brittany can't feel anything but missing San.

* * *

><p>The walk to Santana's house at night smells like jasmine. She remembers San pulling a branch down to show her the blooms one night the summer they were twelve, burying her nose in them and telling Brittany to do the same.<p>

"They only open when it's dark out," she'd whispered. "I think if there's a heaven, it smells like this." Then she smiled, just a little, before remembering herself and shrugging. "I mean, if I believed in that kind of thing."

Brittany had taken her hand then and laced her fingers in Santana's. In the darkness, San would never resist her.

As she walks through the park and along the streets she's known by heart for years, she sifts through gravel and bends underneath trees to pick up little round pebbles. She and San collected a whole jar of them that same summer, that first summer, when things were so easy.

She knows which window is San's, of course. She's never had to sneak through the house that way after hours, since Santana's parents aren't too worried about her coming over even really late at night, the way Brittany's are. But she has seen it open tons of times, seen Santana lying back on her bed, or watching TV, or fixing her makeup—or even looking outside for Brittany. She's always a little embarrassed when Brittany catches her like that.

But tonight she opens the curtains to Brittany's face and reels, lifting a hand softly to her chest. Brittany's heart pounds as Santana opens the window. The light behind her makes a halo over her dark hair and puts her in shadow, but Brittany can still make out her features, read her naked wordless longing.

"Come down," she calls up to her.

San comes quickly, wrapped in a blanket. She looks so small these days. She was always thin, but lately she's seemed the wrong kind of skinny, greenish-pale-skinny, like the girls on the Cheerios who starve themselves, whose collarbones jut out underneath their uniform tops. She looks ready to break at any minute.

Brittany pulls the pencil from behind San's ear—she must have caught her in the middle of math homework, since that's the only thing San ever does in pencil—and resists the urge to kiss the sadness and strangeness away from her face. Instead, she touches her cheek.

"I thought you were angry," whispers San in a cracking voice.

"I was," Brittany begins. But her voice stops in her throat. What else can she say? There's too much—and not enough. Instead, she takes her hand.

"Aren't you going to invite me in?"

San clears her work from her bed and lies down next to Brittany, who pulls her body in as naturally as her feet turn into ballet positions. They've worn into each other like that.

"I couldn't stay angry," she admits to San. "I tried." She breathes in some courage for the rest. Santana's head rises with her ribs. "I wanted to be like you. Angry. Strong."

She tries to explain. But it's times like these that Brittany's words wiggle away from her, and she hopes Santana will just know what she really means, the way only San can do.

San does understand. She looks at Brittany, uncertain, and moves in to kiss her. And oh, how Brittany wants her to. But she can't.

"No. Don't kiss me," she whispers. San stops and draws back a little, looking wounded. "I'm not ready," she explains. San just nods and begins to pull away.

"Can we just"—Brittany searches herself for what it is she wants—"hold each other?"

Now it's Santana who pulls her into her Brittany-shaped groove. Strokes her and kisses her hair. Brittany begins to drift into little ripples of sleep, finally empty of all of those terrible feelings, if just for this one hour. She thinks about her chilly walk home, about lying on the cold place where Santana's body now heats hers, and she doesn't think she can face it—not tonight.

"Can I stay over?"

"Yeah. Of course." San shifts and a little rush of air comes between them. "Let me get you some pajamas." But Brittany holds her back, afraid that the warmth, the peace, will go away if Santana breaks contact with her for one second.

"No. Don't leave me."

"Shh." Santana's body softens back into hers. "Okay. I won't. It's okay. I've got you."

It's enough. For just tonight, it's enough. Brittany drains, soft and slack, into the hollows of Santana, and falls into fast, dreamless sleep.

* * *

><p>One thing's for sure. Brittany can't <em>not <em>go to prom. There's no way. She really wants to go: to wear a dress, and dance, and see everyone all dressed up when it's dark outside. She doesn't even know what some of the Cheerios look like with their hair down, even after having been on the team almost three years. It's amazing, the simplest things you still don't know about people you've known for a long time.

After school, the day she wakes up in Santana's arms, Brittany goes dress shopping with Tina. That girl is a great shopping buddy. They share a dressing room so they can giggle and twirl for each other and switch off on zipping and re-hanging detail.

"So, who are you going with?" Tina asks in their third store dressing room, trading a fresh dress for the one Brittany's just shimmied off.

"No one," says Brittany. She practices her careless shrug.

"I know Artie would go with you, if you wanted. It doesn't have to mean anything."

"I don't want to go with Artie," she snaps. Tina's hand falls in surprise at the outburst; the skirt of the dress she's holding pools on the ground.

"I'm sorry," says Brittany. "I didn't mean to shout at you. It's just… I don't want to go with Artie. I want"—she thinks of Santana, but she can't tell Tina about San—"I want to work on me, you know? Do my own thing."

Tina nods. She slips the dress back onto the hanger and hooks it high on the wall.

Actually, since her breakup with Artie, Brittany's felt a lot closer to Tina. They've bonded over having the same ex—Brittany hears that happens sometimes—and she seems to have convinced Tina, finally, that she's not out to steal Mike Chang. Brittany asks how things are going over a shared tray of fries in the food court. Tina grins.

"I mean, this is probably going to sound stupid," she apologizes, mopping up a puddle of ketchup with two fries, "since we're only seventeen and all, but sometimes… I think he might be the one." She pops the fries into her mouth to keep her grin from spreading.

"That's not stupid," says Brittany. "What makes you think so?"

"I don't know. It's just, when I look at him—when he looks at me. The way… I see him, you know? Like we're the only two people in the world who really _see _each other."

Brittany nods. "I think I know what you mean."

* * *

><p>That night, she finds herself back at Santana's window. The image of Santana with her halo, hand at her heart, is never ever going to leave Brittany. She's pressed it into herself like one of the daisies she presses in her textbooks.<p>

San comes down more quickly this time. It's a miracle again that they don't kiss, there in the dark on the wet grass, when it smells like summer and night and Santana.

This time, San leads her up the stairs by the hand, as if Brittany didn't know the way. As if she'd get lost if San let go.

"Are you staying over again?"

"Can I?"

"Yeah. Let's get into pajamas before we lie down." She digs into her drawer and tosses two shirts and two pairs of cotton shorts onto the bed. Brittany takes one of each and turns her back to change quickly, unhooking her bra underneath the sleep shirt and slipping it off through her sleeve. She can hear by the rustling and gruff breath that Santana is doing the same thing. How funny—like two shy twelve-year-olds at a slumber party.

They lie down. Santana is being careful. So careful. She flicks her eyes over Brittany's face, her hair, her chest. Her fingers draw curlicues over Brittany's sleeve, and even that light touch is making Brittany's heart grow wild. She begins to slide her fingers into Santana's hair, but when San's eyes flutter shut, Brittany knows she won't be able to stop herself from kissing San if she holds her that way. So instead, her hands retreat to Santana's cheeks.

San's eyes snap open, and suddenly everything is gone except for Santana. Brittany freezes. Holds her there. Holds them together—right there.

"Britt-Britt," whispers San, her gaze darting from one of Brittany's eyes to the other. "What are you doing?"

"Shh," Brittany calms her. "Just let me look at you." She wants San's eyes to settle and still again, and they do, slowly.

They breathe into each other. It's almost like their eyes are breathing into each other too. Brittany never knew there were so many colors of darkness, turning and shifting and falling like a kaleidoscope. San is letting Brittany see her. And everything in her is a little too beautiful. It's like she only looks at the Santana of the hallways through mirrors. This—this is her San, straight on, and she's dizzy and drunk with looking at her.

She's not so drunk that she can't see Santana's throat ripple with a nervous swallow. Reluctantly, she slides her hands from San's face to her shoulders, and pulls her close into her chest.

* * *

><p>It's weird. Every day, at school, they wander through their routines like little peg dolls on a clockwork track: barely touching, never looking. But every night, in Santana's bed, Brittany is taming her, gentling her, trying to tell her over and over with her eyes, <em>you're safe. <em>She knows that if only Santana believed her, if she understood, everything would be okay.

But she can't make San understand all at once. It's not that easy. She knows that now.

Santana knows too. She asks for more time.

"Not too long," Brittany says, and it's not a threat, it's a promise.

* * *

><p>The whole thing is super, super embarrassing. One second Brittany is cradling an egg in Home Ec, and the next, she's being ambushed by Artie and his army of guitars, chasing her all over the classroom, like a fly trapped in a room with the windows shut. Finally, feeling everyone's eyes on her, she gives up and slinks back to her seat, waiting for it to end—and praying it will be quick.<p>

When it's over, Artie looks so sure he's won, so shiny-faced, that she wants to punch him. It's the same expression he used to wear all the time, when he told her how proud he was to have her, so why does it make her so angry now? It's not just the song. He meant well—even if what he actually did was humiliate her by making her refuse him in front of a whole classroom of people, making her the bad guy. It's like he's watched too many of those stupid romantic comedies and thinks any girl will melt over being serenaded in front of a million people. As if she's just any girl.

But wait—that's it. That's what's bothering her. To him, she might as well be any girl.

_He doesn't know her. _

Yes—that's definitely what's boiling in her now. What should have bugged her all along. She thinks back, over all of those times he gave her compliments. They were stenciled, ready-made, like the paper dolls Brittany used to buy in those books and punch out with her fingers. _You're so pretty. You look so beautiful in this light. I'm so lucky._ She's reminded of the jigsaw puzzles she liked to do with San in sixth or seventh grade, the way you suddenly spot that one piece you've been looking for forever, and now that you've fit it into its niche, you can't believe you didn't see it before.

"Artie, that was lovely," she says, politely, "but I'm not going to go to prom with you." She ignores the way his face falls like a leaking balloon, and finishes her piece. Stands up for herself. She can feel everyone staring at her, but she doesn't care if she's the bad guy. She's sick of tiptoeing. And there's no way anyone else is going to tell her what to do.

Besides—her loneliness is gone now. In a few more hours, she'll be in Santana's bed, safe and warm in the arms of the only person who really sees her. The person only she really sees.

* * *

><p>"I heard about Artie."<p>

San tries her best to filter the worry out of her voice, but her eyes can't lie, not when they're directly fixed on Brittany's. They're face to face again—even closer than usual—and Brittany's stroking San's palm with her thumb to keep her still and calm.

"So," San continues, "what did you say? I mean—after I…" She trails off for a moment. Her eyes waver away for a moment before she can pull herself together. "I get it, if you said yes."

Brittany shakes her head. "I turned him down," she assures her. "Duh." She shifts her thumb and squeezes San's hand full and flush in her own.

"Why?"

"I told you, I'm done with him."

But San's eyes don't clear and settle yet. Her focus is shifting between Brittany's eyes again. She's struggling to say something else. Brittany waits.

"Are you done with me?"

Oh. Brittany's heart breaks open and folds in easy as an old taped-together box.

"You're different."

She wants to kiss San so bad, so bad, but instead, she kisses her nose. Her cheek. Then she can't stop, somehow: she covers San's warm face with kisses. God, she smells good. She can almost taste Santana's breath as her lips drift apart, begging to be kissed. Her stomach clenches. Before she can stop herself, her mouth slides to Santana's like a magnet: gentle at first, barely brushing, until she feels Santana's soft moan shiver over her lips; she presses harder then, and pulls San close, weaving the fingers of her free hand into San's hair the way she wants to every night when she's cupping San's face. In a flash, Santana's body is flush and beating against hers. God, Brittany wants her so much she feels sore from it, like a deep bruise. San wants her just as much: her body moves against Brittany's in soft slow ripples. Brittany forces herself to pull back. She kisses San's mouth again and again, a half-dozen little apologies.

"Let's not break each other's hearts again, San," she begs. "I want you. I do. But I want all of you. It can't be like it was before."

San smoothes back Brittany's hair and bites her lip. She locks her eyes back into Brittany's—there's an easy groove now; they've worn into each other's eyes the way they've broken in their bodies—and swears, "It won't be."

"Good," says Brittany, trying to keep her voice ironed straight and strong. After all, they're playing the long game now. She's got to pull herself together. No rushing. "Then let's take it slow."

"Okay."

* * *

><p>The night of the prom, when everyone else is gathering and talking and laughing at Breadstix, Brittany sits at the kitchen table with her parents and her little sister. Her hair's only half curled and she's wearing a button-down pajama shirt, waiting until the last minute to put on her dress.<p>

"No garlic," her dad says, pointing at Brittany's penne with his fork. "I left it out. No need to scare everyone away with dragon breath at the prom."

Brittany rolls her eyes. "Thanks."

"We're glad you're going," says her mom, brightly, stealing a quick glance at her dad. "You know, I never had a date for my school dances. I just went with my friends. We danced with plenty of boys and had a great time."

"I know, Mom. You told me that yesterday."

Her sister gives her a little kick under the table. "Darcy told me that Artie sang a song to you in front of everyone and you still wouldn't go to the prom with him, and that makes you a giant b-word_._"

Brittany blushes. "Shut up, Ash. You don't know anything."

"Ashley," her mother steps in. "You know they're not together anymore. Brittany doesn't need to go with anyone if she doesn't want to." She turns to Brittany. "And don't tell your sister to shut up."

Brittany pokes at a piece of pasta, spearing the hollow with a single tine of her fork and splitting it along its seam. With a little pang, she imagines Santana eating baked spaghetti right now, across the booth from Dave Karofsky.

"Can I go upstairs and finish getting ready?" she asks.

"Sure," says her mother. "I'll be up in a few minutes to help you finish your hair."

Brittany flinches a little at that, thinking of the last time Santana helped her curl her hair for a party, accidentally nicked the nape of her neck with the curling iron, and, with a little gasp, immediately dove in to kiss it better. They ended up getting to that party over an hour late—with most of the curls in the back of Brittany's hair flattened out.

"Fine," she manages, before throwing her napkin on her chair and flying upstairs to pull on her dress—and pull herself together.

* * *

><p>After she parks close to the main entrance in the nearly empty lot, Brittany leans her seat back for a minute and opens the sunroof. The stars are out. She's decided to learn the constellations—she even checked out a book of them, complete with diagrams and myths, last week at the library—and she traces a few of them with her fingers. She knows she should be inside right now, in the choir room, warming up and going over the set list, but she just can't yet. She needs a minute to herself. Wasn't that what she wanted from tonight? To work on her?<p>

She knows what's really gluing her here, though. To her seat, the stars, the quiet. The thought of San with Karofsky. That big brute holding her, dancing with her, the girl who rightfully belongs to Brittany but is too afraid to say so. She knows what San is going to look like. Crazy beautiful in red, her lips full and dark and her eyes liquid smoke. Brittany is taming her, little by little, but San's still going to run from her in a clearing like this, when she can feel danger shining on her too hot and too bright.

All right. That's enough. She's going in now, and she's going to have a fabulous time at this prom if it kills her.

* * *

><p>When she walks into the choir room, Santana flashes her a helpless, melting look of love and falls out of the warmup until they shift keys.<p>

Karofsky's sitting slumped in the back, arms crossed, and Brittany feels a weird need to claim San, like a jealous animal. She touches her bare shoulder with the sure tenderness of a lover.

"You look beautiful." Her breath whispers against the curve of San's ear. San shivers.

"You too," she manages.

Brittany drums her fingertips against Santana's skin and glances back to see if Karofsky is watching. But he's not. He's looking, with something very much like longing, at—

Oh my god. Is he looking at Kurt and Blaine?

Kurt's hand is grazing casually between Blaine's shoulder blades, the way Brittany's hand has drifted between Santana's, but the touch—though easy and sure—is anything but casual. She looks back at Karofsky. Yes, he's definitely looking at them. And he looks miserable.

Then, he sees her looking. His eyes dart from corner to corner as he sits up and rubs the back of his neck nervously.

All of a sudden, something clicks. Santana, that night they had sex and San let her look into her eyes for just a second, said something weird. _He—doesn't want… that's not what it's about. _

Dave Karofsky is gay.

The thought floods her with about a hundred feelings at once. Relief, since she doesn't need to be jealous anymore. Pity, from the way he looks at what he can't have—or at least is scared to have—himself.

Sadness, that Santana would rather hide behind this stupid staged lie than be with her.

* * *

><p>She walks into the gym with the two of them. Santana and Karofsky. San leans toward her, and Karofsky fiddles with his suit, keeping his distance. Does he know about the two of them? Brittany doubts it. Though, weirdly, she kind of wishes he did.<p>

The gym is magical. She never thought it could look like this, all dressed up so you'd never know it was a gym. It doesn't even smell the way the gym normally smells—rubbery-sweaty-waxy-chemical-lemon—instead, it smells like balloons and a hundred perfumes and freshly cracked plastic. Like when she was a little girl, the way a new toy used to smell the moment she peeled its blister pack open and held it to her nose, breathing in the smell of brand-newness. She takes Santana's hand, and San even lets her hold it for a little while.

Karofsky mutters something about bringing them punch. Maybe he can see it now, the way she and San look at each other, the same way she could see the way he looked at Kurt.

Once he's finally gone, Brittany takes a deep breath and turns to San. Her heart pounds way too loud in her ears as she works up the nerve to ask what she's longing to ask, even though she knows exactly what San will say.

"Will you dance with me tonight?"

San swallows. Her eyes scan the crowd, shifting from one person to the next. She doesn't look at Brittany when she answers.

"Britt. I'm up for queen. You can't ask me that."

And there it is. Brittany knew it. But she still crumbles a little. San sees it and bites her lip.

"Maybe," she manages, her voice tight. And Brittany knows, with just a little coaxing, that means yes. And suddenly the whole room swells and shines, bright as the constellations.

Then Karofsky comes back, and Brittany slips away before her heart can remember that Santana first said no.

* * *

><p>She forgets soon enough. Prom is super fun. Just like hanging out, goofing off, only to loud music, with everyone in fancy clothes. And, of course, she gets to dance. She dances with everyone: the Glee kids, the Cheerios, the jocks, even a few kids from the AV club. She wants to squeeze them all, to kiss them on the cheeks and twirl them and dip them until they're dizzy.<p>

When Santana dances with her and the other Glee kids, or the Cheerios, or the jocks—never the AV club; she's not there yet—Brittany sees the way she looks at her, like Brittany's the only thing in the room. Her rare Santana smile is out in full force, so bright it's like the spotlight to Brittany's stage.

Sure, she still wishes she could have gone with Santana. But this is good too.

For good measure, she drops in a prom royalty vote for Santana. She leaves the king spot blank. She may feel bad for Karofsky, but she can't quite bring herself to root for him yet.

* * *

><p>Karofsky wins anyway. Brittany wants to be happy because it means Santana will win too. She supposes she mostly is. She smiles at Santana's manic excitement.<p>

But then, Santana doesn't win.

When Figgins says Kurt's name instead of Santana's, Brittany watches Santana's face melt into the most terrifying, heartbroken look she's ever seen. She feels Santana shifting, ready to run, and—with one pitying look at Kurt, who has begin to run, weeping, to the double doors—weaves her way through the crowd into the hallway.

Sure enough—Santana arrives, choked with tears, and Brittany takes her arm and leads her into the only private place she knows will be unlocked: the choir room.

Santana is rambling, lost, pacing like a nervous animal. Part of Brittany wants to hold and still and gentle her. Part of Brittany feels cruel, and wants to ask her what right she thinks she has to break down like this when _she_ was the one who broke Brittany's heart over this prom campaign in the first place. But the biggest part of her just wants San to see what she's seen all along: that none of this ever mattered.

"They don't know what you're hiding," she tells Santana. "They just… know that you're not being yourself."

San stops for a moment. Looks at her. Trusts her. And then she knows just what to say.

"If you were to embrace all the awesomeness that you are," Brittany goes on, "you would have won."

Santana shrugs.

"How do you know?"

"Because I voted for you. And because"—she steps closer, longing to kiss her, but knowing the words she's about to speak matter more—"I believe in you, Santana."

San is stunned. Her mouth is open. Her eyes say _thank you_, and _that was just what I needed to hear_, and most of all, _kiss me now_. Brittany wants to, but she won't. Not tonight.

So when Santana asks what she should do, Brittany tells her to do the right thing.

"Go back out there and be there for Kurt. Because it's going to be a lot harder for him than it is for you." She offers her a tissue from her bag and watches as San dabs it, carefully, against her eyelashes and under the rims of her eyes. She examines the black streaks and bites her lip. She wants to say something else. Brittany waits.

"Britt, that would have been us," she says, finally. "If we'd gone together."

She's still so afraid. Why won't she stop being afraid? Who cares about anyone else, when they love each other?

"You don't know what would have happened," she counters.

"This isn't New York. This is Lima, Ohio." Santana straightens up. Hardens. "We have to remember that."

"San, I get it." She can't stand it when Santana condescends to her, since San almost never condescends to her. "I was there too," she reminds her. "I saw the same thing you saw."

San looks down, sheepish. Brittany softens. No use making her feel worse. Besides—San's up next in the set list. They have to get back.

"Come on." She flashes her a quick encouraging smile. "I'll walk you to the wings."

* * *

><p>Brittany is so proud of Santana for pulling it together and singing with Mercedes for the prom royalty dance. Maybe she'll be strong enough to dance with Brittany by the end of the night. Maybe.<p>

After they dance in a group together, she pulls Brittany aside. For just a second, Brittany's heart thumps as she wonders whether Santana is about to ask her to dance. She isn't, of course.

"How'd you get here, Britt?" she asks.

Brittany shrugs, wondering where this is going. "Drove myself."

"Do you think I can get a ride home with you?"

Brittany's heart thumps hard again.

"What about Karofsky?" she asks cautiously.

San sighs. "He's… gone."

Brittany remembers the terror in his face when he ran away from Kurt. It makes her remember Santana's face when Jacob Ben-Israel was interviewing her in front of Brittany's locker. That panic. That self-loathing.

"Well, sure, of course I'll drive you home. Do you—"

But before she can ask San to come home with her, Figgins announces the last dance. Brittany's belly flip-flops. She can't wait any longer. Can't soften Santana any more. She takes a deep breath and goes all in.

"This is it. This is your last chance. Will you dance with me?"

She waits. San's face flickers like a TV screen with a stuck-down channel change button. She doesn't say no, so Brittany's going to take it as a yes. She takes her pinkie, the way they've done so many times in public, and leads her to a darker, calmer place.

* * *

><p>Santana is wide-eyed and small and stiff, like a rabbit, but she follows the tug of Brittany's finger hitched to hers. Then Brittany stops, near a shadowy sparse corner, and they face each other. San swallows.<p>

"Nobody is looking," Brittany soothes her. "It's okay. Just dance with me."

San pulls her lip between her teeth and nurses it for a moment. Brittany's heart is louder than the opening chords of "Save The Last Dance."

Then, San tips her head into the tiniest of nods.

Brittany is overjoyed. She pulls San close—not too close, since she sees San's eyes search out a dozen faces and an escape route—by a hand cupped around her ribs, just above her waist. Santana's breath catches the same way it does every time Brittany begins to touch her.

Everything in Brittany is achingly happy. It feels too good to be true: to be dancing with Santana at their junior prom, holding her closer than she's ever let Brittany hold her in public. For just these few minutes, as Kurt's close harmony tucks itself into Blaine's melody, it feels like Santana never broke her heart.

"Thank you," she whispers, at the end, thinking about San's fear in the choir room, and her courage in this dark corner. "I'm so proud of you."

San's smile seems to swell from her chest to her throat before spreading and opening her mouth. Brittany can see Santana wants to kiss her. She wishes she would—even though she knows she won't.

Not yet.

* * *

><p>They walk out together, under the full veil of stars, pinkie in pinkie. Brittany notices a couple of strange looks—probably people wondering where Karofsky went, and why Santana isn't with him—but in a strange turn, Santana doesn't seem to notice.<p>

"Seems like you had fun, Britt," she says, climbing into the passenger side and shutting the door in unison with Brittany's.

"I did. Did you?" She cranks the ignition while Santana considers.

"Actually," she admits, "I did."

As they wait in the bottleneck to leave the parking lot, San pulls Brittany's free hand onto the center console and covers it with her own.

"Are we going to your house or mine?" Brittany asks.

"Mine," says San. "I don't want my mom to think I'm spending the night at Dave's."

"Can't you just tell her you're spending the night at my house?"

San sighs.

"I'd rather not… complicate things. She doesn't need to know about Dave's… well, about Dave."

Brittany takes a hard, deep breath.

"What _about_ Dave?" she asks pointedly, turning her gaze from the halted line of cars to San's face.

Santana twists to meet Brittany's gaze. She tilts her head and raises her eyebrow.

"What do you mean?"

"San. I know."

"About?"

"Karofsky's gay, isn't he?"

Santana gasps, reeling like Brittany's slapped her.

"How did you—"

"The way he was looking at Kurt," Brittany finishes.

To her surprise, Santana rotates back to face forward. An odd little grin replaces her shocked expression.

"Kurt, huh?" she muses. "You mean…?"

"Yeah. You didn't know?"

San shakes her head. But the grin stays.

"Makes sense, though," she reasons. "You know, he's not so bad, Karofsky."

Brittany shrugs. "I just feel bad for him." She glances toward Santana's hand that covers her own. "He's hiding because he's too afraid to go for what he wants."

San's head twists sharply toward the passenger side window. Silence falls, save for the soft, cranked-down beat of the Ke$ha album Brittany grooved to, alone and at max volume, on her way to prom. Feels like a month ago, not hours.

"You… I…" San glances back over and begins to trace the webbing between Brittany's fingers with her own fingertips as she struggles. "Britt, you know I want to be with you."

"You keep saying so." She feels a little bad at how clipped her voice sounds, feels San's fingertips pause on her knuckles, and adds, "I was really happy you danced with me tonight."

Silence—the warm, sweet kind this time. They sigh in unison.

"It felt… really good," admits San. "I want that with you. Maybe if"—she corrects herself—"I mean, maybe _when…"_

She trails off without finishing her thought. Or maybe, thinks Brittany, that _was _her whole thought.

Either way, Brittany understands.

The brake lights of the car in front of them snuff out as the line begins to move. Brittany shifts from brake to gas.

"I know, San," she says. "Now let's get you home before you turn into a pumpkin."

She can feel San grinning as they lurch forward. San clasps her hand, firm and sure, like a promise.


	19. Grand Pas

(Author's Note: Well, Dear Readers, this is the last chapter before the simultaneous release of the final chapters of The Only True Paradises and this story. Enjoy!)

* * *

><p>After the prom, it's Santana who comes to Brittany every night—through her window, the way she always did as a lanky girl whose knees were secretly scraped beneath those prim skirts. The tree's branches are sturdier and thicker, which works out well, since Santana is bigger than she used to be.<p>

"How do you open the window from the outside like that?" Brittany asks the second night, just after San climbs into her room. She peeks her head outside to study the latch and sees San's dusty dinged bike propped against the house. It's probably been years since she last rolled that thing out of the garage, and it makes Brittany grin to see it again.

"You just… click the latch. I'll show you how one of these days. Just in case you lock yourself out again." She smoothes Brittany's hair to one side, exposing her neck, and traces a line from her earlobe to her collarbone. "Happy to see me?"

Brittany turns to face her and kisses her once on each cheek.

"Always."

Since she lost her nerve to kiss Santana outside her house after prom, Brittany has made up for it by kissing her every night after she tames her. But holding back from doing more is getting harder and harder. She wants her so much that her mind slips back to it constantly. Her teachers are scolding her even more than usual. How can she keep her mind on angles and lines when the only ones she can think of belong to Santana?

Every time she's about to kiss San, she tells her out loud—_I'm going to kiss you_—for the thrill of watching San's eyes flutter shut in bliss and feel her sigh against Brittany's nearing lips. Brittany's lost in wonder again that she could ever feel this loved, this wanted. Artie always looked so happy to be with _someone like_ Brittany. San, on the other hand: San looks happy to her bones to be with _Brittany. _

When they sleep, Brittany sometimes wakes in the night and turns or stirs, and San whimpers and pulls her back in, tight and desperate. She's still so afraid.

She's always been afraid. Her fear has just changed shape.

* * *

><p>The hall sign-up sheet for solo auditions proves that Santana is no longer afraid of the same things. Brittany's super proud to see San's name, scrawled big and dark right at the top of the list. Number one slot.<p>

"So you're going for it." They're trading out books at their lockers. Santana slams hers shut with a smirk.

"Duh. I'm going to be top bitch in Glee. Berry can suck it."

Brittany rolls her eyes. Well, at least San is owning up to how much she loves Glee. That's something.

Then San glances away, and her smile changes shape: soft and shy.

"Want to come over and help me pick my audition song?" She shrugs, like it doesn't matter, but Brittany knows the shrug—like the edge in Santana's voice—is meant for the hallway, not her.

"Sure. Take me home with you. I'll text my mom and steal something to wear tomorrow."

Santana beams.

* * *

><p>Back at San's, Brittany sits on the bed, listening to San try on a series of songs. She begins with Billie Holiday's "Summertime." Her voice strokes it with a simple tenderness Billie's never had—a tenderness Brittany wants to keep to herself.<p>

Next is the Fugees' cover of "Killing Me Softly." It fits right into the groove of San's voice. Would probably go over well. It's a good mix: a little of everything. Soul. Sweetness. Sorrow.

Finally, she sings Amy Winehouse's "Back to Black." It's angry, keening, ripped from somewhere deep, and yet Santana is somehow _purring. _It's liquid sex. Brittany feels her knees spreading as San licks the low notes, and oh god, this is actually turning her on. This might not be a bad pick, since the goal is to win over two men. Especially when one of them is nineteen years old and doesn't look like he's gotten laid in a while.

Then again, neither has Brittany. God, the things Santana can do with that mouth. She watches San's tongue flick against the edge of her lips as the ground seems to rumble underneath her.

Brittany lets her body vote for her. Two thumbs way, way up for "Back to Black." And because she can't be expected to just _sit there _after listening to that, she pulls Santana's body against hers and just breathes in the musky, earthy soul of the song still clinging to her skin. She begs herself to let this be enough.

"Britt," moans San, quivering against her, and Brittany curses herself for wanting to take this slow when every muscle in her body feels stretched tight; she's a chamber of strings tuned together to the key of Santana. She peels herself away.

"Sorry," she breathes out, though she can't help but leave a kiss just next to San's mouth before changing the subject. "Can I come to the audition?"

San sighs. "I don't think so. Sorry, Britt. I think it's just the other people auditioning who get to sit in."

"Well, how about a private performance? I mean, you need to practice, don't you?" She almost regrets asking right as the words leave her mouth. This is going to be the most delicious, awful torture.

It is. While Santana sings, Brittany is thinking about ducking into the bathroom to get rid of this ache. This must be what blue balls feel like. Her only comfort is that San looks just as desperate and shaken as Brittany feels. By the time she finishes the last run-through, San is practically growling.

"Sexual frustration totally sounds good on you," Brittany teases once Santana settles, exhausted, next to her.

The whole time she's taming San that night, all she can think about is attacking that mouth of hers. It feels like minute after minute of that hanging second just before they kiss. Her stomach is twisted in knots. Finally, she can't stand it anymore. She's only human. And when she dives in, she feels San's groan of relief into her mouth shaking loose the tight cluster of her insides.

It takes everything in her to pull away from that kiss.

"Soon," she says, breathless, as much for herself as for San, whose face shifts and tightens with frustration before she pulls herself together.

"When you're ready," says San.

Brittany closes her eyes and pictures the exact moment when she knew it was Santana, not Artie, who she was meant to be with. The moment she looked into Santana's eyes while slipping inside her.

Brittany is ready. She's been ready for a long time.

"No," says Brittany, shaking her head. "When you are." San bites her lip, puzzled, so Brittany adds: "When you understand, I'll know you're ready."

She kisses San's forehead, then excuses herself to the bathroom. She's only human, after all. And what she's holding out for is way too important to let her body get in the way.

* * *

><p>The first thing Brittany does after she and San part ways at school the next morning is track down Lauren Zizes. She's rifling through her locker and smirks when she sees Brittany coming.<p>

"Can you sneak me into the auditorium later to watch the auditions?" she asks.

Lauren glances both ways before giving a quick nod.

"Easy."

* * *

><p>In a few hours, Brittany is following a thin pimply AV club boy along the catwalk over the auditorium. It's fun up here: fun to tiptoe soundlessly along the narrow path, scanning the rows of seats that look like crops from a low-flying plane. He directs her to a perch where she can see the stage perfectly.<p>

"Here we are," says the boy. "Can you get back okay? It's just the way we came." He points to the dark door leading to the steps.

"Yep. Thanks."

She watches him pick his way back over the passage before turning her attention to where the sound of a swinging door announces that Mr. Schue and Jesse have entered the auditorium.

San's first. And god, is she ever sexy. Brittany reels, dizzy, over the flimsy scaffolding; she's afraid she'll drop from it like a dead bird from a telephone wire. Mr. Schue sits up a little straighter, but Jesse is just scribbling and looks bored. Brittany wants to slap him. How could _anyone _look bored with San singing like that?

She sticks around for Kurt and Mercedes—she has to admit, they both sound totally awesome—but tiptoes back during Rachel's audition so she doesn't have to watch Jesse sitting forward and looking equal parts love-drunk-dopey and turned on.

By the time Santana and Kurt and Mercedes file out, Brittany's back in the auditorium, next to the door, waiting.

San's body gives a little jump when she sees Brittany.

"Britt, what are you doing here?" she asks.

After the others have left, Brittany shows San the catwalk. San's face drains.

"How the hell did you get up there? That can't be safe."

"San. It's okay," she reassures her, explaining her assist from the AV club.

Santana's face relaxes, and then grows almost shy.

"So… you were watching, huh?" she asks, softly. "What did you think?

"I think if they don't pick you," she says, nodding toward the disappearing backs of Jesse and Mr. Schuester, "they're the stupidest men alive."

* * *

><p>Tonight, as San helps her study for the Spanish final, Brittany lets things get a little too heated after San uses a pronunciation lesson as an excuse to suck Brittany's finger into her clever, sneaky mouth. All of a sudden, Brittany is in San's lap and sucking her face like she's getting paid to do it. She's only human, she's only human, and it just feels so good she can't stop herself.<p>

To her surprise, it's San, this time, who breaks them apart, panting and starving. Her lips are dark and swollen from Brittany's eager teeth.

"Britt, am I ready?" she asks, her voice cracking. Oh. Brittany's heart melts.

"What do you think?"

San ponders for a minute, her eyes locked to Brittany's.

"I don't think so," she says, slowly. "I don't think I understand yet."

Brittany kisses San's hands and face and forces her hips to retreat from where they push into Santana's.

"Ugh," San grunts, although she's grinning too big to be _that _upset. "I'm my own cockblock."

"I'm proud of you," Brittany says. _I love you, _she thinks.

"You keep saying that." San's voice is sharp with frustration.

"Well, I mean it."

"Soon." Santana sighs.

"Soon."

* * *

><p>Brittany films Mr. Schuester and Jesse's deliberation process to gather some intel. She even flirts a little with Jesse to see whether she can sway him—even though she doesn't have much hope, since even Santana's super sexy song didn't turn him on—but sure enough, he's only got eyes for Rachel. She wishes Mr. Schue would grow a pair instead of listening to this guy.<p>

It's too late now. This thing's in the bag. Nobody else ever had a chance.

She wonders how—and if—she should break it to Santana.

A little while before midnight, Brittany's thinking over possible ways to prepare San for the bad news as she studies a book of constellations on the lawn. Jazz was extra hard today, and her muscles are just now starting to uncoil in the soft cool grass. Her flashlight beam travels in zigzags over the diagrams and blocks of text, and she clicks it off to look up, searching for Ursa Major.

A whizzing of gears along the sidewalk tells her San is rounding the corner on her bike. As she passes under the streetlight, Brittany watches a flash of yellow light stroke Santana's dark hair, which flies, loose and long, behind her.

She smiles at Brittany as she walks her bike up the lawn. After leaning it against its usual spot on the wall, she settles down face up next to Brittany in the grass. She slips a hand behind her head and kicks off her flats.

"Stargazing?" she asks.

"Learning constellations."

San readjusts to snuggle into Brittany. She interlaces their fingers.

"Teach me."

Brittany's eyes scan the veil of stars.

"Well, that one"—she points with the hand not wrapped in San's—"that bright star, there? That's the dog star. Sirius. And over there"—she traces a line of three stars—"that's Orion's belt. Orion's a hunter. That one's my favorite. Easy to see, anywhere."

"Well, then, it's my favorite too," says San, squeezing her hand.

"Why?"

"Because every time I see it from now on, I'll think of you."

Brittany rolls over and kisses her then. At this second, she doesn't need anything more.

* * *

><p>The next day is when the solo is supposed to be announced. Brittany feels like she's eaten bad cheese when she thinks about how Santana will react after Rachel wins. It's going to launch her backwards, Brittany just knows it, and at this rate, maybe she'll <em>never<em> come out.

But then, Mr. Schue surprises her. Rachel doesn't get the solo after all. They're all going to sing together.

Brittany can't help it. She smiles at Santana with a relief San will never understand, because Brittany will never tell her what almost happened.

Better yet, Brittany's parents will be out of town tonight for her sister's soccer tournament. Which means chocolate chip pancakes, sleeping in until noon, and the whole long night alone with Santana.

* * *

><p>San makes a huge stack of pancakes. After all the practice she's had over the years, she's good at it—now and then, she flips one like a chef—and Brittany watches in admiration from the counter, swinging her legs like a kid.<p>

Since San tells her she can pick any movie she wants, Brittany goes for _Finding Nemo. _There's something about being home alone with San that reminds her of the old days. She remembers San's first gooey-burnt-lopsided attempts at chocolate chip pancakes when they were thirteen and stayed home alone at Brittany's for the first time. These ones, though, are perfect. She devours them and, as soon as the movie ends, she begins to devour Santana.

When their kisses start heating up too much for the den, she drags San upstairs. A little part of her reminds her to slow down, but another, stronger, _lower_ part of her can't stand it another minute. San leaps on top of her, her lips sweet and hot and sticky from the pancakes, and suddenly Brittany can't even remember what the word "willpower" means.

Santana does.

After breaking the kiss, lifting Brittany's chin, and looking—hard—into her eyes, San swallows and hesitates.

"Britt." She sounds nervous. "Britt, I want to try something."

"What is it, San?"

"I want… to look into your eyes."

Brittany fights to iron every hint of frustration out of her voice. "Okay," she says, as softly as she can. "Do you want to roll over on our sides?"

That's not it. San shakes her head. "I don't mean—the way we've been doing," she says. "I mean, I want to see you."

Brittany can't figure out what she's trying to say—only that whatever it is, it's really, really important.

San swallows, gathers herself, and takes a deep breath.

"Brittany, I—I'm ready." Her gaze flickers between Brittany's eyes. "I want to… to make love to you. And I want to look into your eyes."

Oh god. This is it. The room disappears. Everything but Santana has been blown out, disappeared, like a candle flame. Brittany struggles to find her voice and pull it back into her throat.

"Yes." The word comes out as soft as a breath as she strokes San's cheek. "Yes," she repeats, firm and sure.

Santana rolls Brittany carefully onto her back. Little by little, her eyes stop flickering between Brittany's and grow still and calm and deep.

"God, you're beautiful," she whispers, her voice deep and thick. Her hair falls around her face and settles over Brittany's as she leans impossibly close. Her breath still tastes like pancakes, but now it's changed somehow: there's a tinge of what Brittany tasted on her breath the first time. That same longing and awe—even if Brittany didn't know, back then, what she was sensing.

She knows better now.

San begins to touch and kiss her all over. Slowly. Getting used to how it feels. Brittany doesn't mind. Her fast-burning need has softened to a patient smolder. She could wait for hours, now that she knows what she's waiting for.

When San reaches to undress her, Brittany helps, turning her limbs. Then she turns to undress Santana, who—unlike the old days—submits to Brittany's hands.

Back on top of Brittany, San runs her hands over Brittany's naked skin, unhurried and expert. No one has ever known Brittany's body the way Santana does. She knows every line of it without looking, the way she always knows the right word in Spanish when Brittany asks for one. The same way Brittany knows an old dance. But she can't remember Santana learning her body. It's like she's always known, like it came to her in a dream, like a language spoken to her in her sleep.

Santana is smiling, unguarded and easy, as her fingers glide over the familiar skin. Brittany sees, fully, for the first time, how much San _enjoys _touching her. Not just wanting—it's almost like she's in love with Brittany's body. Was their lovemaking always like this for her? Brittany thinks back over a dozen times when Santana's hands ran over her skin exactly like this, from their earliest nights in the shadows. Maybe Brittany was right all along.

"Touch me," she whispers. She feels suddenly eager to see the way San's eyes change when she touches her _there. _"Touch me, Santana."

When Santana does begin to touch her, it jolts something deep in Brittany—so deep and so strong it takes her by surprise. San grins wider at Brittany's reaction to the slow gentle circles she begins to draw between her thighs with two fingertips. It's the way San touches her when she's feeling especially tender, although she's never admitted as much to Brittany.

It's the most amazing thing. These past two years, all the lies and heartbreak in the shadows, clear away. _This _is the way they should always have been. _This_ is how someone in love should look: the way Santana is looking at her right this moment.

"You feel so good, baby," she murmurs, and San answers with the simplest, happiest sigh Brittany has ever heard her breathe.

Then she eases two fingers inside her, eyes dark and wide and careful, and Brittany suddenly feels the urge to cry. It's too much—and not enough. San's fingers move deep, slow, just right, and her hips surge to meet them.

"Stay. Stay here." She clings to San's hair. "Don't leave me."

"I will never leave you," whispers Santana.

The words have barely left her lips when Brittany lets her body overtake her. She feels everything in her opening to Santana, begging her to plunge in. It's so dark and so bright at once, like when she rubs her eyes with her fists and sees a hundred fractured flickering stars. San's so close—she's dipped her face so close to Brittany's that Brittany can listen to her hard uneven breath—sweating against her, breasts flush against hers, rocking her hips to the primal rhythm of Brittany's. Her eyes are full of curiosity and wonder, like Brittany is a stretch of water at sunrise that she's seeing for the first time.

"Santana," she cries, and in that moment it's the only word she knows.

Once she comes down, they lose themselves in kissing—sticky hungry kisses—before Brittany eases Santana on her back, eager to give her the same gift she's just given Brittany.

"That was…" San bites her lip, flailing for words.

"I know," Brittany assures her.

She begins to explore Santana's soft dark beautiful body, basking in the San smell that rises from her like a warm halo. It's stronger and darker and sweeter than night jasmine. Over the years since that first summer, it's worn deep and smooth, the way perfume blends into flesh. Brittany is dizzy with it as she spreads San's legs with her body and slides her hand lower, and a new musky note breaks and blooms into the smell of her skin.

San freezes. Her eyes flash with animal fear.

Brittany retreats and touches San's face to gentle her.

"San, what's wrong?" she coos.

"I… I don't know." San gulps. "I don't know if I can do this."

Brittany smiles. "Shh. Yes you can." She reflects for a minute, and the answer comes to her. She pulls San's arms over her own shoulders so they form a circle around her neck. "Hold on to me," she directs. "I'll keep you safe. You'll see—it's easy."

Once San's arms link together in a solid ring, her eyes clear: liquid and tame. Brittany moves slowly this time, feeling Santana's quick heartbeat through a coat of sweat. She lets Santana get used to every inch closer, waiting for San's thighs to relax and spread for her, until her fingertips are just on the edge.

"Stay with me, Santana," she reminds her. Then, she closes that final inch. San sighs with more relief than fear as Brittany's fingers run along the warm wet seam.

Little by little, the fear melts from San's eyes. Brittany holds her gaze, braces her, keeps her promise. San's trust is naked and perfect. Her mouth opens, soft as song, as Brittany strokes her in a gentle rhythm.

Too soon, when San's neck stretches, begging, and her noises grow fast and breathy, Brittany eases to a stop. She doesn't want it to be over yet. Not before she falls hard, one more time, into San's dark dizzying eyes.

"Do you want me inside you?" she asks. Santana nods and bites her lip—only to release it with a cry as Brittany's fingers slip into wet swallowing depth. Santana begins to shake as Brittany slides, crooks, finds her, fills her. Her eyes begin to jump between Brittany's again. She's scared. She's too close and it feels too big. Brittany knows exactly how she feels—but it's time.

"Let go, baby. It's okay." Her voice gentles: a whisper, a lullaby. "I've got you. Let go."

San steels herself. Her eyes fix, steady and brave, and then she lets go.

Her moan rattles from someplace deep. Her body shakes so hard with the force of her orgasm that Brittany's afraid she'll shatter. Brittany's heart is beating so hard to see this far into the quick of Santana that she wouldn't be surprised if they folded in on each other, like two sheets of paper crumpled together in a fist.

_Good girl, _she thinks, bringing Santana down safely with gentle, firm strokes inside her.

Finally, bending to San's damp, glistening throat and cheeks and temples, Brittany kisses her, drinks her, sighs with her. It's everything, everything she knew it could be. Her heart is still beating so hard she wonders how she's still breathing.

"You did great." She kisses her mouth—that sweet, sweet mouth—and crushes herself against the girl she's head over heels in love with. "Oh, San, you were incredible."

* * *

><p>By the time Brittany wakes up, curled into San's body, the sunlight washes bright and straw-colored through her curtains. The sun and San's skin have heated her body to a light sheen of sweat. Her arm clings to Santana's ribs, just below her breasts.<p>

Tilting her head up, she sees San smiling down at her.

"Hi," she whispers.

"Hi." San smiles wider.

"Were you watching me sleep?"

"Mhm." She kisses Brittany's brow.

"How did I look?" She nuzzles San's neck, squeezing her chest.

"Beautiful."

They lie in silence, content and warm as cats in their patch of sunlight.

"Thank you," says Brittany, "for last night."

"You too."

Brittany draws a deep breath—and courage.

"Do you think"—Brittany's heart speeds—"maybe we could… you know, try out, _us_, in New York?"

She feels San's chest shiver beneath her head with a hard gulp.

"Britt, I'm doing my best here. Can we just—let last night be enough, for today?"

Brittany's heart sinks. Then, San clears her throat.

"All right. I'll… think about it." She reflects. "Maybe, if we win Nationals, we'll have enough buzz factor to get away with—"

"Stop it," Brittany cuts her off. "Don't do that."

"I'm sorry," says San, sincerely, after a beat. "I know this is too slow for you. I… I'm not as brave as you, Britt. I'm just not. You have to believe me that I'm doing the best I can."

"I know." Brittany brings San's hand to her own heart. "I believe you."

She does. She has to. Even if it means getting her heart broken all over again. Because her other choice is to let go.

And—she tucks herself deeper into San and closes her eyes against the late morning light—there is no way she is letting go.


	20. Encore

(Author's Note: I've included acknowledgments in my author's note for TOTP 20. I thank you all again for your readership and support.

This is it! Bisous and farewell.)

* * *

><p>Brittany is strapped into her seat, belt pulled and locked low and tight across her hips like the flight attendant told her to.<p>

San tentatively strokes Brittany's sleeve between her finger and thumb.

"You okay, Britt-Britt?" she whispers. Brittany nods.

San's an old pro at this. She's flown more times than she can count on her hands: weekends tagging along with her dad to medical conferences, visits to her cousins, that kind of thing—especially before she moved from Cleveland to Lima. The only other person here who's been on a plane is Rachel, and that was just to visit some family in Denver. Santana didn't cut in once when Rachel gave them all a big speech on the long pre-dawn bus ride to the airport: how it was no big deal, how they should chew gum on the descent to keep their ears from popping when the pressure changed, how the attendants would bring them free soda or juice or whatever they wanted. In the old days, Santana might have cut Rachel down and embarrassed her; but now she just smirked, looked out the window and didn't breathe a word. Brittany was proud of her for that.

San tears the cellophane wrapper off the blue blanket from her seat. "Lean forward," she orders, and slips a pillow into the hollow of Brittany's back. Brittany settles back—it is much comfier now—and lets Santana drape the blanket over their knees. San burrows her hand under the blanket and plays with Brittany's palm. She soothes her, tells her this will be fun. Brittany's not so sure. Suitcases disappear, swallowed into the underbelly of the plane as men in reflective vests toss them onto the moving ribbon. They're all in the belly of the plane now. The doors are shut—no turning back.

"Britt, you can't be scared of planes," teases San. "Otherwise, how can you ever go to Paris and Shanghai and LA, like you talk about? Don't you want to go to Disney World someday with our—" Her voice shuts off; her fingers stop their tracing. Brittany knows not to turn around, not to embarrass her, but she knows exactly how San looks: dark with heat, mouth shut, eyes darting down and to the side. Her heart soars as she finishes Santana's sentence in her mind.

As the plane rumbles and begins to lift away from solid ground, San squeezes her hand. _Our children, _Brittany repeats to herself, and suddenly she's not afraid anymore.

* * *

><p>Brittany had thought they'd land right in the middle of the city, just coast down to the top of a building like a helicopter. So when they land on a long flat empty strip and have to <em>drive<em> into the city, she feels a little cheated. There are honest-to-god _houses. _It's nothing like in the movies.

As if she could read her disappointment, San leans over to whisper in her ear.

"We're not in Manhattan yet," she reassures her. "Just wait until we cross the bridge."

Sure enough—the landscape changes. Once they hit the edge of the river, Brittany can see the scaffolding of the bridge, the thick oozing ribbons of cars. The buildings jut into the sky like uneven gray teeth.

Then they cross over and plunge in.

Everyone oohs and ahs as they make their way into the thicket of buildings. It's dark; even though it's daylight she can hardly see the sun, blocked by the massive skyscrapers. Their upper stretches are gray and silver, matte and mirrored. Some have ribs and designs and others are flat as a sheet of winter ice.

But at eye level, everything changes. There are colors: flying cloth, cries, people flying in and out of doors. Skinny women in stiletto heels and dark jeans stride along the sidewalks so fast that Brittany wonders how they don't wobble or fall. Strange spices and exhaust fumes and damp sticky foreign smells filter into the shuttle. The rows of shops so narrow and so close together that Brittany would have trouble reading the signs—that is, if they weren't moving so slowly. The traffic crawls; the horns howl, and Brittany wonders why everyone is so angry, when they really can't expect to be in a hurry. In Lima, the streetlights are far apart. Here, they're so tightly packed that she can see them stretching out in long rows, the way you see billions of selves when you step between two mirrors that face each other.

Finally, they reach the hotel. A crew of bellboys deploy to toss suitcases from the back of the shuttle onto their rolling carts. A row of taxis, constantly refreshing and departing as passengers are ushered in or out, moves along the side of the building like one of those perpetual motion toys with the row of silver balls.

They all escape for a few minutes while Mr. Schue checks them in—"Don't go more than a block away, all right?"—but too soon, they're herded into the hotel room to start on the songs. The brightness of New York disappears except for the tiny square through their window. It's kind of torture to look down at the street from behind the glass—the window doesn't even open all the way—with nothing but the honking cars and the floating fumes to tell them where they are. Brittany looks around at the bland room—same bleach-soap-detergent smell, same scratchy bedspreads and white walls, as the other two hotels she's been to—and feels like her cat when he's scratching at the inside door.

From the looks on the others' faces, she's not the only one.

* * *

><p>It's only ten in the morning when everyone decides it's time to escape. Mr. Schue is long gone anyway, so who's to know if they skip out for a few hours?<p>

"We should really be back by, like, one," says Finn, leaning against the outside wall of the hotel as the others gather around, "so let's decide where we want to go." He unfolds an embarrassingly huge map. "So, if we want to go to Central Park…"

"Central Park is huge," interrupts Santana. "What do you want to see there?"

Finn shrugs. "I don't know. Okay. Maybe, the Statue of Liberty?"

Santana full-out laughs at that one.

"You know that's on another _island, _don't you? You have to take a boat. We so do not have time for that."

"If you magically know everything," snaps Rachel, "then why don't _you _lead the way?"

"Fine," says Santana. "Put the map away. Where do you want to go?"

They decide on a few locations as a group—"We'll have to take the subway there," Santana notes, rolling her eyes, when a few people get excited about Washington Square Park—and, after confirming the intersections with Finn, she decides on the best order.

Her eyes dart over a few landmarks before she points to the right and directs, "Okay—this way."

"How do you know which way to go?" asks Rachel.

"So many questions, troll," she quips, though her tone is friendly. "Easy. The streets go this way"—she points forward—"and the avenues go that way." She gestures to the right.

"Oh," says Rachel, impressed in spite of herself.

Brittany joins Santana at the front, matching her quick strides.

"Leave it to them to pick stuff that far downtown," she shrugs. "I'm not looking forward to herding these beasts of burden onto the subway."

Sure enough, after a couple of unsuccessful transactions, they all hand their cash to Santana, who swipes her credit card at the automated machine and distributes charged metro cards to everyone.

"Guard these with your life," she directs them, "and follow me."

The subway platform is a dark underworld, like a dank sewer covered in tile. There are so many people everywhere—muscling and slithering among the crowd to get a good spot at the front—and a man plays a song on his saxophone that's so slow and liquid that Brittany feels a shiver of loneliness, even among this murmuring, pushing crowd.

Santana's hand warms her shoulder.

"You all right, Britt-Britt?" she asks.

Brittany nods.

"It's just so… _big,_" she explains, even though she can't quite put her finger on what's overwhelming her about this city.

"Don't worry," says San, softly, her thumb playing with the fabric of Brittany's sleeve. "I won't lose you."

* * *

><p>San leads them through the park, through the streets. Tina and Mercedes buy cheesy light-up statues of the Empire State Building; Artie buys a copy of the New York Times from a newsstand. Brittany points at a hot dog vendor with a stripy umbrella—"smells so good, San"—and Santana buys her one with extra mustard and relish. She slips a couple of napkins into her purse so she can dab away the globs of mustard that are sure to end up on the tip of Brittany's nose.<p>

As they tunnel through the streets, San points out this and that building, some art deco architecture, churches, restaurants—"they have the _best _pizza you've ever had in your life"—and hands Brittany her purse so she can bum a cigarette off a smoking businessman. Brittany's mouth is sour from the hot dog, so she sticks her hand in to search for some gum or mints, since San always has some on her. Instead, she feels the perforations of a ripped-out sheet of notebook paper. Glancing to see that Santana is still talking to the man—she's leaning forward now while he cups the flame around her waiting lips—she unfolds a little and sees Santana's handwriting: "_You and me keep on dancing_…"

It's all she has time to read before Santana is striding back over, trailing smoke. Brittany slips the folded sheet of paper into her pocket.

"Want a drag, Britt?" she asks, grinning. Brittany's about to say no when San holds it to her mouth, fingers brushing against Brittany's lips, and she draws in a mouthful of smoke just to keep the nearness of Santana.

Once they're back in the hotel room, exhilarated, Brittany excuses herself to the bathroom and unfolds the piece of paper in her pocket.

"…_dancing in the dark,_

_It's been tearing me apart __not having you__ never knowing what we are_

_You and me keep on trying to play it cool_

_But it's time to make a move, and that's what __I have to do__ I'm gonna do_

_I want to lay it all down for you"_

It's definitely San's handwriting: certain and clear, especially on the parts she's corrected. Brittany can see her leaning against the foot of her bed, nested in pillows, her pen getting surer and steadier as she wrote. The last line is underlined several times in fast thin strokes, like she was caressing the thought, reassuring herself that it's what she wanted to say.

Brittany longs to believe that this is about her. It must be. But she can't believe it—she can't get her hopes up again.

Still, Santana's on to something. Even if she'll never cop to writing it.

Unless—just maybe—Brittany offers to lay it all down first.

* * *

><p>After busying the other girls with a pillow fight, Brittany slips out with Santana and confronts her in the hallway, showing her what she found. Santana's eyes widen; she's spooked and ready to run. Maybe this was a terrible idea after all. But Brittany has to try.<p>

"It's really good," she pushes. "You wrote this, right?"

San won't say it out loud. She looks ready to die of humiliation: overheated, bowed, eyes flicking between her feet and the corridor exit sign. Brittany takes a deep breath and ups the stakes.

"I think you should show it to everyone," she says, firmly.

"No," snaps Santana.

Brittany puts the paper away, a gesture of peace, and strokes Santana's hot face. Her muscles and throat are shivering; Brittany lets her hand fall before she pushes San to the edge of tears.

"Well, what if I said _I_ wrote it? Would you let me show them?" Santana looks up, curious, and Brittany goes all in. "You don't have to answer. Just say something right now if that's not okay with you, and I won't do it."

Santana melts, softens, cools. Her throat shivers with a swallow. She says nothing.

Brittany's heart soars.

"They're going to love it," she promises, and pulls San back into the chaos.

* * *

><p>After getting San's permission, the rest is easy. She copies it down in her own handwriting, so no one will know it's San's, and then she shows Tina. Tina trusts that Brittany's not dumb, since she's seen her in action during her stint on the Brainiacs. But it kind of surprises Brittany that no one gives her that doubtful "but… <em>Brittany?" <em>look that Mr. Schue broke her heart with, months ago. She glances at San, who's clearly pleased with the success of her lyrics, though she's trying her best to hide it. No big deal; everyone probably thinks she's just proud of Brittany, the way she always is when Brittany shines.

Mercedes makes a run next door to fetch the boys, and the group hammers out a few more verses. The next part, the music, is usually headed up by Rachel and Tina, with some help from Artie and Puck. But Rachel's suddenly gone, and Finn didn't come in with the rest of the boys.

"Don't worry about it," says Mike. "They're… fine." He winks at Puck—Mike is winking, at _Puck_?—and Brittany tries to catch San's eye to share a look of curiosity, but all of a sudden Santana's missing too.

Brittany pokes her head outside to look for her, but instead, she feels fingertips perch on her shoulder.

"Shh," San's breath whispers against the back of her neck. "Wait outside. I have to grab your purse, and then we're playing hooky."

Once they're both out, they practically skip down the hall, pinkies linked, giggling at their own naughtiness like the best friends they are.

While they descend alone in the elevator, so fast Brittany's belly swoops, Santana steals a kiss, pressing Brittany's back against the plush wall. Brittany melts against her.

"I think they liked… that verse," San ventures, trying not to look too pleased.

"Well, duh," says Brittany. "We wrote a whole song around it."

"And"—she glances away shyly—"you liked it too?"

Brittany kisses her nose.

"I loved it."

* * *

><p>Once they're back on the streets, Santana snaps back into her confident, battle-ready New York alter ego.<p>

"This way, Britt." She glances at her cell phone. "And quick. We haven't got much time before they close."

Brittany trots after her—Santana's strides are so long and quick anyone would swear she had the longer legs—until they reach the edges of Central Park. Santana pulls out a tiny slip of paper and sheepishly takes a look at a roughly scrawled map before leading her around to the right entrance.

"Central Park Zoo," she presents, pointing to the entrance. She looks super pleased with herself for just a moment, before she realizes how obvious her grin is and reels it back in. Brittany claps her hands and doesn't try to hide her smile.

They go to the ticket counter and Santana asks for two adult tickets.

"Together or separate?"

"Together," says Santana, too fast and too firm, and pushes Brittany's wallet away. She seems a little embarrassed when she hands Brittany her ticket; she refuses to meet her eye.

"Why, Santana Lopez," whispers Brittany as they walk toward the entrance, "is this a _date?"_

Santana turns away, grinning, and refuses to answer the question.

Brittany chooses the way, looping around the exotic mammals. There's the most beautiful snow leopard she's ever seen, with dappled luscious fur, who moves slow and liquid as honey around its enclosure. San leans against the fence, admiring the leopard as it curls lazily on a rock. Brittany inches closer—not quite touching Santana, but so close she can feel San's heat shedding from her hair and body in the sunlight.

"Gorgeous, huh?" says Brittany.

San purses her lips and glances at Brittany like she wants to say something, but her eyes return just as fast to the contented cat.

"Yeah," she says. "It is."

Brittany loves the poison frogs—they're so colorful, and so slimy they look freshly wet all the time—and San makes sure they get to the 4:15 harbor seal feeding so Brittany can watch them waddle and scarf down fish with pure animal joy. Sometimes Brittany wishes human pleasure could be so pure. She's trying her hardest to keep her eyes ahead as if she can't see San watching her. Even though she can't get a look at San's expression, she knows which it must be: that tame, tender look she just glimpses the moment her eyes open, those mornings when Santana watches her sleep.

"So," Santana asks, as they're ushered out by an employee at closing time, "did you like the zoo?"

"Of course I did!" Brittany gives her a quick, chaste squeeze around the waist. "I loved it. Thank you." San's smile is huge and unabashed.

"Good. I'm happy."

"I'm just sad we have to go back now and finish writing those stupid songs." Brittany glances back sadly as the zoo security begins to shut the gates behind them.

"Hold up," says San, turning to face Brittany. "Who said anything about going back now?" Her grin is just plain dopey now. Brittany wants so badly to kiss it.

* * *

><p>Santana leads her a couple of blocks closer to their hotel and ushers her into a huge store with what looks like a giraffe in the window.<p>

"FAO Schwarz," she says. "Heard of it?"

"No," says Brittany breathlessly. Sure enough—a huge stuffed giraffe and a whole zoo of other plush animals sprawls over shelves and floor space on their left. There's an island of candy and a balcony overhead with kids leaping from side to side. Wait: does she hear a piano?

"Come on," urges Santana, ushering her up the stairs to where those kids are jumping. And that's where the noise is coming from: they're leaping from key to key on a giant piano. They're playing it—with their feet!

"San, can we do that?" she asks, tugging on her sleeve.

"Yeah," laughs Santana. "I was planning on it. But we have to wait in line."

While they wait, she makes a plan: she gets a groaning San to agree to play with her. Something easy—chopsticks, which Brittany taught Santana years ago on an old upright when she tagged along on childhood visits to Brittany's grandma's house.

"So, all you have to do is start on the white key next to me, and just jump down one white key every time we change. Six jumps on every note. Just follow me."

"Britt, I know, I remember. I'm not _that _bad at piano."

It sucks the first time through, but then they kind of get it, and it's amazing. San laughs at how well it works when they jump toward each other, and even more when they jump in parallel rhythm down the length of the keyboard. They both lose it when they try—and fail miserably—to jump back up the octave for the second go on the B section, and surrender the piano to a trio of seven-year-old girls who jump and twirl in an amelodic mess.

They wander the floors, the girls' sections and the boys' sections and everything in between. As they pass the building blocks, San points out a set of Legos with pieces to build a medieval kingdom.

"That one's vintage," she says. "I had one of those."

"You had Legos?" It comes out before Brittany has a chance to filter out her surprise. But San just grins.

"Yeah. I wanted this set for Christmas when I was, like, six? Seven? My dad didn't want me to have it. Said Legos were for boys. But I wouldn't shut up about it, so they gave in, in the end." Her smile darkens, stiffens. "Guess _that _should have been a big red flag, huh?"

Brittany smiles, unsure of how to answer. But then Santana laughs a little, and Brittany laughs too, relieved.

"Legos," repeats San, as if it's some kind of code, and shakes her head. "Subtle."

They're looking at the historic teddy bears in their glass cases when Santana flicks open her phone. Her eyes widen upon seeing the time.

"We'd better move on," she says. "Can I…" she looks away again, shy. "Can I get you, like, a teddy bear?"

Brittany spies a cute little stuffed polar bear—then she sees the price tag. She shakes her head.

"Can I have a lollipop instead?" she asks, pointing to one of the big flat ones near the cash register.

"Anything you want," says San, and runs ahead to fetch it, pushing back a piece of hair to shield her silly smile.

* * *

><p>Brittany wants to unwrap the lollipop right away, but San stays her hand.<p>

"You have to save room," she says. "How do you feel about sushi?"

Brittany has had sushi exactly once: in Michigan, when she was nine. It tasted like salt and cold wiggly fish and she spit it right out. But San looks so excited about this that she nods her approval.

The restaurant smells clean, not at all fishy or oily or salty like the ocean. It's full of black and white: simple and smallish.

"We'd like to sit at the sushi bar," Santana directs the hostess, who leads them to a pair of adjacent bar stools.

"I thought you might like to watch them work," says Santana, shrugging, and points behind the glass in front of them.

Chefs dressed in white aprons work fast, their knives gleaming and diving, disappearing and emerging, like silver fish. The chef right in front of them slices even finger-sized rectangles from bright slabs of translucent, quivering meat.

"That one's tuna," San tells her, pointing at a cherry colored block, then at the orange-and-white striped one next to it "and that's salmon."

"Are they raw?" Brittany scrunches her nose.

"Yeah," says Santana. "But don't be scared off. It tastes good. Weird, but really good. Trust me."

"I do," says Brittany, smiling. Her attention turns to another chef, who slips a dark green leaf—perfectly square—from a stack and rests it on a tiny bamboo mat. He slathers it with rice and layers it with fillings before rolling it into a perfect, tight cylinder.

"Making rolls," notes Santana, seeing where Brittany's gaze has fallen.

Santana orders, and their waitress brings them a plate full of colors and shapes Brittany's never seen before. San scrapes a tiny hint of green paste onto the end of her chopstick and holds it to Brittany's mouth.

"See if this is too spicy," she says, and Brittany licks it off. It's weird—she shivers all over—but it makes her mouth and eyes feel bright, like a light has been switched on behind them.

"I kinda like it," she says. It's the right answer—San grins.

"Good girl," she says, and shows Brittany how to make a slurry out of the green paste and the dark rich soy sauce.

Brittany was right to trust Santana. Maybe it's because she's older, maybe it's just better in New York, but this tastes nothing like the sushi she remembers. It's cold and crunchy, soft, chewy, light. Even those weird butter pats of raw fish taste good. The grain is so fine and tender that she can crush the fish like cold Jell-o between her tongue and the roof of her mouth. The chopsticks are kind of hard to use until Santana rigs them up and teaches her how, and then she slips a few pieces between San's lips with them, loving the way San flushes every time like it's brand-new.

San snatches the check and pays without even letting Brittany see.

"What a gentleman," teases Brittany. "Paying on the first date."

Santana's eyes flash with panic for a moment as she glances around, wondering who heard. But no one did—or maybe no one cares. Her face relaxes; she raises a questioning eyebrow.

"A gentleman, huh?" she retorts, forcing a grin, as she signs the returned check and slips her credit card into her purse. "Tell me, then—why are you the one wearing pants?"

* * *

><p>Brittany wants so badly to grab Santana's hand, now that it's dark outside and the lights are making everything so pretty and romantic—even the red tail-lights of the taxis, still crawling along slower than she and San can walk—but then she remembers Santana's reaction to her teasing in the restaurant and decides not to push her luck.<p>

"Where are we going?" she asks.

"You'll see."

Then, they're overlooking the square at Rockefeller Center. There's a gold statue of some unknown solid god, all lit up, and a pouring fountain that dwarfs the people milling around below. Brittany just can't get over how _big _everything is here. How can anyone not feel little when all of these buildings loom above, gray and unfeeling?

Suddenly, the back of Santana's hand brushes her wrist, and she forgets everything else.

She thinks it might be an accident until she loosens her hold on the balustrade and Santana's hand doesn't move away. Her heart drowns every loud, insistent sound in the whole city as Santana slowly—slowly—takes Brittany's hand in hers.

She reminds herself not to breathe too hard, not to make a move or a sound, as their fingers interlace. Santana relaxes her arm, relaxes into Brittany's touch, relaxes into this clear, unmistakable announcement to the whole enormous city: _we are together; we are in love._

For a while, Brittany lets herself just enjoy it. She feels Santana's heartbeat through her palm. San's breathing too fast. Is she nervous, or excited? Should Brittany squeeze her hand? Let her know this is all right? But as she tries to decide, San's heart gradually quiets and her breathing relaxes, until it almost seems—normal, in the strangest and most wonderful way.

Finally, Brittany breaks the silence.

"Thank you for today. I had an amazing time."

"Me too."

They're silent again for a moment. It's all been so perfect. She wishes it could be like this always, not just in New York where nobody knows them.

So even though it might ruin everything, as good as it feels now to have San's hand in hers, Brittany can't help but push her luck one more time.

"San? Can I ask you something?"

Santana's hand stiffens. "Sure."

"What is it that you're so afraid of?"

"Britt." A warning.

"Please."

Santana sighs. She thinks—really thinks—and Brittany waits. She's got time.

Finally, Santana takes a deep breath.

"Some people aren't as open as you," she begins. "They can be—cruel. They don't understand."

"People like who?"

San shrugs, not from uncertainty, but because it's obvious she doesn't want to go on. "People at school. My grandparents and aunts and uncles." A pause. "My father."

Brittany knows it wasn't easy for Santana to say that. Santana's eyes are already shining darker than they should.

"I'm sorry," says Brittany, ready to put it aside for the night. But then Santana straightens a little, squeezes her hand harder, and starts in again.

"I just want people to respect me, you know? I mean, I'll settle for fear. But that, I can't lose. That's all I have." She looks away. "I'm not like you, Britt. I'm… not easy to love."

Brittany's heart breaks for her. She wants to kiss those terrible words away from Santana's lips. She feels helpless.

"Oh, San. Is that really how you feel?"

"You asked me."

Brittany swallows. She feels even worse. "Yeah. I did."

She searches herself for something to say, some way to comfort San. She expects San to look away again, but she holds Brittany's gaze, working up the courage to speak again.

"Can I ask you a question now?"

"Of course."

She pauses. "Why did you choose him?"

That was not what Brittany expected. She takes a long breath.

"At the time, I thought I was doing the right thing," she says.

"And now?" pushes Santana.

Part of Brittany wants to tell Santana what she wants to hear: that of course it was a huge mistake, that she should have dumped Artie and gone underground with Santana, waited and pushed and pined for her to come out—if she ever came out—and in the meantime, stay her dirty little secret.

But Brittany's sick of lying and hiding. She's sick of not being honest. And while it was probably the most painful few weeks of her life, she can't lie to herself: when Santana left, Brittany grew. She grew strong enough to tame San.

Now Santana has to be strong enough to tame herself.

"I don't know," she answers—the honest response Santana deserves.

She rethinks her approach when Santana instantly breaks down. It's quick and terrible, like a hurricane. Santana won't even let Brittany near enough to wipe her tears away. Her anger rises like smoke from some broken thing inside her, the way it did at the lockers when she first told Brittany she loved her. When Brittany chose Artie.

"I mean"—Brittany can't lie, but she can do her best to explain—"I don't know if it was the right thing for any of us. I know it was never the same with him as it is with you. I just…"

It's finally time to bite the bullet and get it over with. The hardest part. What she's been too afraid to say for nearly three years.

"You broke my heart so many times, Santana. What could I do?" She softens. "I couldn't wait forever."

Santana says nothing. She goes cold. Brittany could swear she feels San shaking—that is, until Santana drops her hand.

"We should go back," says Santana. Her voice sounds hollow.

"Santana," pleads Brittany.

"Come on." Santana cuts her off. "It's late."

They walk back in silence. Santana doesn't reach for her hand again.

* * *

><p>San goes to find pillows or something while Brittany looks for a place to sleep. Looks like they'll have to settle for the floor.<p>

Santana kept a couple of feet of distance between them the whole way back to the hotel. Even on the elevator. They both faced toward the door as they shot up the two-dozen floors to their room.

But when she returns to the room, burdened with blankets and pillows, she whispers to Brittany:

"Grab a couple of shirts and meet me in the bathroom."

Brittany nods and, after Santana disappears into the bathroom, flips the deadbolt back open to shut the door. She pulls a sleep shirt from Santana's suitcase first. She brings the shirt to her nose and breathes in; the fabric heats to her temperature as she holds it to her chest, rummaging through her own suitcase for a sleep shirt. Just the Santana smell rising from the warm cotton makes her heart pound. For a minute, all she wants to do is fly into Santana's arms and beg for her forgiveness, to kiss her all over until they both forget that Brittany made her cry.

But that's not who they are anymore. Brittany wants more than that. And in her deepest heart, even though it's not going to be easy, she knows that Santana wants more too.

When Brittany walks into the bathroom and shuts the door behind her, Santana is busy arranging blankets and pillows in the bathtub, like a little burrow. It's not much room; to fit, they'll have to lie on their sides and spoon. Santana can't be so angry with Brittany after all, if she's willing to be this near to her.

Brittany changes San and herself into pajamas—San into her shirt, her into San's, just because it feels right—and they crawl into the tub, with Brittany sheltering Santana's body. It's warm in their burrow; they don't need to pull the blankets over them when they've got each other, especially since Santana runs hot, and their limbs are woven together, skin against skin. Brittany strokes Santana; Santana wiggles deep into the soft places of Brittany.

"I'm sorry about earlier," says Brittany. And she is: not about being honest, but about not being gentle enough. About making Santana cry, after she had given Brittany such a beautiful day. "I'm still here," she reminds her. "I'm still waiting. You know that, right?"

Santana doesn't say anything. Brittany's still nervous she's spoiled everything. But as she debates saying something else, something to make Santana feel loved, she feels Santana's heartbeat too strong and too fast as she shifts in Brittany's arms, preparing to speak.

"You won't have to wait much longer," says Santana, her voice suddenly clear and certain. "I'll… I'll do it soon."

Brittany closes her eyes, opens them again. It's dark in the room and she feels dizzy. She clings hard to Santana—she can't bring herself to believe it yet.

"Do you really mean that?" she asks.

Santana nods; her hair rubs against Brittany's cheek.

"Yes," she says, in that same clear voice. "By the end of the summer. I promise." She shifts again. "Can you wait that much longer?"

Brittany thinks about her words from earlier. _I couldn't wait forever, _she'd said. Next to the three years she's waited so far, one summer seems short—if Santana keeps her promise.

"Yeah. I think I can wait that long."

* * *

><p>Brittany wakes up to find Santana's eyes on hers, her hand stroking Brittany's chest, right over her heart.<p>

"Wake up, Britt-Britt," she says, kissing each of Brittany's fluttering eyelids in turn. "We've got to move out before we're discovered again."

"Again?"

San looks away. Her hand stops moving.

"Yeah. Rachel barged in earlier and saw us." She's trying to pretend it's no big deal to her—and even though Brittany would like it better if it really wasn't, it's still an improvement.

"Do you think she knew…?"

"From the way she looked at us? I'd say so."

Brittany flinches. "You didn't threaten her, did you?"

San shakes her head. "No. But I don't think she's going to tell anyone." She ruffles Brittany's hair. "Actually," she muses, "she was kind of nice about it."

_See? _Brittany wants to say. _This won't be so hard._ But this isn't the moment. Instead she follows San's careful instructions as they clean up their tracks and make their strategic escape.

* * *

><p>They haven't even been working on the songs in the boys' room for twenty minutes before Santana's had enough.<p>

"Meet me in our bathroom in five," she whispers, her breath tickling Brittany's ear in a way that tells her exactly what for, and Brittany can feel the hairs on the back of her neck light up like a thousand fiber optic wires.

Once she swings back over to the girls' room, Brittany is surprised to see San standing outside the bathroom. She tries the door too, but it's locked. And then San looks at her, and she looks at San. There's only one person that could be in that bathroom—and it's not Rachel Berry.

When Santana bangs on the door again and tells Quinn to come out, she does—and all at once, she and San are fighting, so fast it's like the old days, when Brittany would watch their fencing games without knowing the rules. But now they've thrown away the gloves and plucked the blunt tips off their foils. They're fighting for real now, about something real, and Brittany can't do anything but stand back and wait.

But suddenly, as she watches them scream at each other, hears the too-keen edge to their voices, Brittany realizes: she's known the rules all along. She just never wanted to play.

Then something happens that Brittany never expected. They drop the foils and stop playing. Quinn retreats, sits down, and—with a look of agreement—Santana and Brittany sit down beside her.

"I just want somebody to love me," says Quinn through her tears. Brittany strokes her, soothes her, remembering that lonely moment at the lockers when Artie and Santana had both left her behind—alone. She looks at each of the other two girls, lost for a moment in her own private heartbreak, and feels like for as long as they've known each other, this is the first time they've all been in the same room.

"I think I know how to make you feel better," ventures Santana.

"I'm flattered, Santana," says Quinn, "but I'm really not that into that."

Brittany holds her breath and begs San, silently, not to fly off the handle.

But to her surprise, San shakes it off.

"_No_…no, I'm not talking about that," she says. "I'm talking about a haircut." She catches Brittany's eye for approval; Brittany answers with a smile.

"Yeah. Totally."

* * *

><p>While San makes a lobby run to get a few supplies, Brittany fills the sink and washes Quinn's hair. She combs the suds from the roots to the ends, digs her fingers into Quinn's scalp, tests the tap to get the water nice and warm before rinsing. Quinn just closes her eyes and bows her head, gripping the counter for support.<p>

Once Brittany has finished, she towels off Quinn's hair, rubbing close to the roots, affectionately, playfully, like she used to when she dried her little sister's hair after baths. Quinn smiles and hums.

"I don't think anyone has washed my hair for me since I was six," she confesses.

"Not even"—Brittany was about to say in the hospital, after she'd given birth, but she catches herself just in time—"not even when you were sick?"

Quinn shakes her head. "My mom mostly stayed away from me when I was sick. The only person I ever remember washing my hair was my big sister, before she moved away for college." She releases her grip on the counter. "Mom wasn't really… hands-on, that way."

Brittany nods, not wanting to interrupt.

"I wish she had been, you know? There were a lot of things I could have asked…"

She trails off, then lifts her eyes to Brittany's.

"So, you and Santana." It's not a question, just a statement—and an invitation.

"I don't think I should talk about it," says Brittany, looking around, in case San came back in while the tap was still running.

"I think… I knew already."

Brittany doesn't answer.

"Brittany? You can talk to me, you know? Just because I'm a Christian doesn't mean I think… well." She shrugs.

"I know," says Brittany, sincerely. "Thank you."

* * *

><p>Santana is strangely tender as she prepares Quinn for her haircut. She runs her finger around the perimeter of the blanket before clipping it around Quinn's neck, to make sure it isn't too tight. She arranges towels to catch the clippings under the desk chair, just so, lifting each of Quinn's feet for her as she works. Even more incredibly, she holds Quinn, touches her, soothes her—"you'll be okay," she says, with a softness she normally reserves for Brittany—as Brittany slowly, carefully, shapes her hair.<p>

Quinn's hair is nearly as soft as her little sister's baby-fine down, softer than Santana's when Brittany combs it out wet. It slips between the blades of her fingers and gives in easily between the blades of the scissors. As the snips whisper in what sounds like a secret, sacred language, San watches the cuttings fall. They turn paler as they dry, until the towels are covered in what looks like straw spun into gold, just like in the fairy tale.

"That ought to do it," says Brittany, pulling down the pieces on each side of Quinn's face to make sure they're even. She fetches the blowdryer to finish, and to chase off the last stray pieces of what she cut away.

* * *

><p>Between working out some rough, simple choreography with Mike, teaching it to everyone, and trying to memorize her solos and harmonies, Brittany can't believe it's time to go already.<p>

The lobby is already filled with choirs. It's overwhelming. The room smells like a hundred different soaps, and a few perfumes and colognes—guess they have no Rachel Berry to tell them that fragrances can cause inflammation and allergies in their delicate throats, especially hers—but most of all, like adrenaline. Everyone is ready to go. Brittany takes a few deep breaths, but the truth is, the New Directions are not ready and they're not going to be. They'll do however they do, and then they'll go home just the same.

Meanwhile, Santana is shredding a strip of the napkins from yesterday into teeny tiny pieces, which fall like snowflakes onto the carpet. Her lip is raw and looks split in at least two places. She's nervous—she admits it—and Brittany can't really help her, not when she's been performing enough years to know that their chances of winning anything with this little practice are close to zip.

Instead, she sits back and enjoys the other performances. Chats with a few members of other choirs in the lobby. Buys some merchandise—after all, they made it here, didn't they? All the way from Lima, Ohio. That's really something, when you stop to think about it.

To Brittany's surprise, the performance actually goes pretty well—that is, except for those weird several seconds of total silence after the first number.

That Jesse kid—why is he here, anyway?—clears that mystery up right away when he announces, in that know-it-all way of his, that Rachel and Finn's post-duet onstage kiss lost them the competition. So that's what happened when their backs were turned.

Brittany knows Santana is going to flip when she finds out. So she maneuvers her away from Jesse as long as possible and waits until she can tell San herself—which, as it turns out, happens naturally when San asks about it on their walk back to the hotel.

"What the _everloving fuck?"_ fumes Santana. Brittany cringes. She hates when San gets like this, even when it comes to Rachel Berry.

"San, I know," she soothes her, buying time. "Let's just get back to the hotel, okay?"

* * *

><p>Before Brittany has time to take Santana into another room to gentle her, the time bomb goes off—and so does Santana. Spitting and kicking and screaming in Spanish. There are only two reasons that Santana uses Spanish, outside of that weird mash-up of Spanish and English she sometimes speaks with her parents: in Mr. Schue's class, and when she wants to scare the shit out of someone. From the look on Rachel's face, it's working.<p>

But it's not Brittany who gets to her first. It's Quinn, who rushes San to the bathroom with a tenderness Brittany's never seen anyone show toward Santana—except for her.

She's happy San is with someone, quiet behind that shut door. She wonders what they're talking about. Brittany wonders whether Santana and Quinn even realize all they have in common. Their hard fathers, their frightened mothers. That shared parching thirst that makes them search for a well that doesn't exist. Their beauty, so bright it doesn't even seem like it comes from this world. Their keen tongues and keener eyes.

It's almost enough to make Brittany jealous.

Her better angels win fast, though. If Santana is really serious about coming out in the fall, she needs to know she has other people she can turn to—not just Brittany—to love her.

Brittany unfixes her gaze from the bathroom door and turns to see Sam and Finn and Kurt and Tina hovering over Rachel.

"I'm all right," she says, brushing away their concern. "I'm fine."

"Seriously," says Puck, "that shit was scary."

"Want me to kick her ass?" asks Mercedes.

"Guys, come on," Brittany cuts in. They turn to her, but she has nothing else to say—San was definitely out of line, and everyone knows it.

"She was upset," Rachel reasons. "We all are."

Brittany remembers what Santana told her when she first woke up, about Rachel seeing the two of them spooned in the bathtub. Watching Rachel's face settle into silence after defending Santana, when she'd had the perfect opportunity to strike back, Brittany wonders just what happened between Rachel and Santana this morning.

She looks back at the bathroom door as San and Quinn emerge, puffy-eyed and sheepish, but lighter somehow, like someone had removed weights from their shoes. She wonders if San is ready to believe, now, that they're all on the same side.

Out to two Glee clubbers in the same day. Not a bad start to the summer.

* * *

><p>Santana shuts down the whole way home—but so does everyone else. It seems like everyone except for Brittany is trapped in a bubble of private bitterness. Which, of course, traps Brittany in a different kind of loneliness. It's like no one understands. Like suddenly, after all this time, kicking ass is all this club is about.<p>

Yeah, Brittany would have liked to win. But where do you go from winning? It's something Santana—who leans against the window of the airplane, watching carpets of empty earth roll away behind them—never quite _got. _The Prom Queen campaign, the Cheerios' national titles, the Show Choir Nationals: sure, winning this stuff feels great, but two weeks later, you're the same girl, with the same clothes, clinging to the same handful of people who truly love you.

You always have to come home.

The last day of classes, the day they get back to school from New York, Brittany sees Santana at her locker, holding a weird little rag doll.

"Hey," says Brittany. "You still pissed?"

San—hard, school Santana again—turns to her with a look that could peel paint.

"Do you think this voodoo doll looks enough like Rachel Berry to actually work?"

"Come on," she coaxes. "You can't be mad at Rachel for forever."

"Uh, yes, we can," she scoffs. Brittany makes a note to tell her, later, about how Rachel defended her in the hotel room while she was with Quinn.

They settle with their backs to the cold locker.

"How could you possibly be so calm?" asks San, hiding her pain and confusion under a veneer of irritation she knows will fool neither of them.

"I don't know," she begins. Now's her in—but she has to choose her words carefully. "I hated losing just as much as everyone," she assures her, "but this year wasn't about… winning for me."

"Clearly," deadpans Santana, "cause we got our asses kicked."

Brittany shoots her a look. Santana softens.

"Sorry. What was it about?"

"Acceptance," says Brittany. "I know that all the kids in the Glee Club, they fight and they steal each other's boyfriends and girlfriends, and they threaten to quit, like, every other week, but… weird stuff like that happens in families."

San's face flickers with sadness at the word.

"Yeah, well, this is a club," she counters. Her shields are back up. "This is not a family."

Brittany tries one more time, standing up to face her. If she can only reach her eyes, she can keep her tame—just long enough to listen.

"Well—family is a place where everyone loves you no matter what, and they accept you for who you are," she says, pointedly. "I know I'm going to be a bridesmaid at Mike and Tina's wedding, and I'm going to be anxiously awaiting, just like everyone else, to see if their babies are Asian too. When they find an operation to make Artie's legs work again, I'm going to be there for his first steps. I love them. I love everyone in Glee Club. And I get to spend another year with everyone I love, so… I'm good."

Santana soaks this in. She's uncertain—but the seeds have fallen into place, and Brittany's used to waiting.

"What about you and I?" asks San.

They're in the hallway. In public. Santana looks almost sorry she asked, so fragile that Brittany knows that she has to say the words Santana is needing—longing—to hear.

"I love you, Santana," she says, clear and certain. "I love you more than I've ever loved anyone else in this world. All I know about you and I is that because of that"—she looks around, and decides to save the rest for later—"I think anything's possible."

San clings to her like she's afraid Brittany will run away if she loosens her grip.

"You're my best friend," she says, her voice sure and unsure at the same time. She's waiting for the answer to a different question.

"Yeah," says Brittany, answering it. "Me too."

They pull away, slowly, so the contact between them can linger, can remind Santana: _I'm still here. I'm still waiting. _

Santana sighs, pulls herself together. She holds out her pinkie—it's all she can give Brittany at the moment, but right now, it's enough.

"When did you get so smart?" asks San, as they fall into step together.

* * *

><p>In the daylight, there is no jasmine on the walk from Brittany's house to Santana's. Instead, in the starched early summer heat, there is the sharp smell of grass, the sweet breeze, the dry earth.<p>

They're meeting in the park between their houses. Santana is early: she's changed, like Brittany, into shorts and sandals. In her oversized t-shirt, hair hanging loose around her shoulders, she could be eleven-year-old summer Santana, or twelve, or fourteen.

San tilts her head and smiles as Brittany takes the swing beside her. They sit in silence like that, wrapped together in the smell of earth and the heat of the sun and the sounds of trees and birds and chains and distant traffic.

They used to play here for hours: swinging, whispering, gathering, climbing trees. Everything disappeared except for them. But they're getting older now; every time a car drives by, unseen, on the opposite road, San perks up to listen as it passes.

"Britt?" she says, the first to break the silence.

"Yeah?" She looks at Santana, who looks at her feet: coated with a film of dust.

"What did you mean, 'anything's possible'?"

Oh. Right.

"I mean"—her voice straightens, clear and strong—"I think you can do this."

Santana bites her lip. She doesn't seem so sure.

"What if I can't? Will you… still love me?"

Sometimes Brittany wonders how many times her heart can break before it won't knit back together. She watches San twist, pivoting the swing from the ball of her foot as if trying to drill herself into the ground.

She grabs Santana's chain—stills her, calms her—and makes sure her eyes are locked into Santana's.

"Yes," she says, willing the words to stick—willing Santana to believe her. "Whatever happens, I will always, _always _love you."

The chains of San's swing shiver and rattle as Santana's body shakes. She's crying. She doesn't think she deserves this: to be loved. Santana's words above Rockefeller Center repeat painfully in Brittany's ears as she watches San weep.

_I'm not like you, Britt. I'm not easy to love._

You're wrong, Santana, thinks Brittany. You're wrong.

"San," she beckons, reaching for Santana's hand. "Come on."

They walk through the dry grass that rasps and stings beneath their feet. Brittany leads her to a shady spot where the grass is still pale green and soft. They sit down together; Santana's head rests in her lap, and she strokes the last of the weeping out of her, from her cheeks and mouth, down the strands of her hair, and lets everything sink far away from them, deep beneath the cool grass.

"How long have you loved me?" asks San, her eyes unmoving. Her heartbeat flashes in her temple as Brittany smoothes the hair away.

"Loved you how?"

"Loved me"—San's eyes follow a bird from one tree to the next; she swallows—"the way I've loved you, since that summer three years ago. Before our first kiss."

Brittany never thought she would hear those words. Never thought San would admit this: that those kisses in the darkness, those touches and sighs—they had always counted. They had always meant something. From the very beginning.

Humming in bliss, she strokes San's side, feels her lengthen under Brittany's touch like a cat. Santana seemed so sure of it, the moment she fell in love with Brittany. Brittany can't put her finger on it. She reels back through their history, like riffling through old slides. The moment she chose Santana over Artie. The night she awoke to find Santana whispering to her. Those looks and touches and stolen kisses in corners. All of those nights in Santana's arms. The first time they made love in the daylight—the first time they made love.

No. It was before that. Before the summer, before that first kiss. Before the bicycles and the night jasmine and the swings.

Suddenly, she sees it. It's the easiest answer in the world.

"Since the first day I saw you."

Santana sighs. Her face is—for the moment—wiped clean of everything but peace. She takes Brittany's hand in hers and turns belly-up to face her.

"Kiss me," she whispers.

Brittany feels a painfully strong pulse in her palm, in her thighs. She's not sure whose it is—hers or Santana's—or whether that even matters.

"Here?" she asks, doubtful. "In daylight? Where anyone could see?"

"Yes," says Santana immediately. Her eyes are soft and dark beneath the shifting shade. "Kiss me now."

Brittany's heart is as fast as a hummingbird's as she leans toward Santana's lips. Her back bows; she nears and nears, and then she's the one who's afraid for one fleeting second—afraid of how big this feels—until Santana clings to her neck and, rising, closes the distance between them.

Her hair smells like gardenias and late afternoon sunlight. It's hot—almost painfully hot—between Brittany's fingers as she holds Santana up in her arms. The leaves shake, but neither of them is shaking as they kiss, unhurried, unsheltered and safe.

That's the moment Brittany knows that Santana is going to keep her promise.

Their lips part; Santana reclines, relaxing her full weight onto Brittany's supporting arms. She cups Brittany's face; her eyes are still and steady.

"Britt?" she whispers.

"Yes?"

"I will always, always love you too."


End file.
